


are you lost enough?

by tozier, trashmouthing



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Coming Out, Depersonalization, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Drinking, pennywise do NOT interact, stephen king do NOT interact, thoughts about drugs? how do i even tag for that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-03-27 18:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 372,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13886361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tozier/pseuds/tozier, https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashmouthing/pseuds/trashmouthing
Summary: But here in Stanley’s basement, surrounded by these six loud, colorful, unpredictable souls, he thinks for the first time ever that there might be room for him here, that there might be pride in being a loser if that’s what they call themselves.





	1. Summer, 1991

**Author's Note:**

> hoo boy.
> 
> hello! we're comin' atcha with some LONG ASS FIC. this is just the beginning. more tags will be added as it's updated. it's _mostly_ written. we're workin' on it, promise.
> 
> title is from lorde's perfect places.
> 
> enjoy!

****“I can't believe you busted the guts out of our fucking ball, Haystack,” Richie Tozier mutters as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, teetering back and forth on his bike; as usual, his tone is so neutral it’s a hard toss as to whether he is impressed or envious, though the look on his face favors the latter. Anybody who spends more than five minutes on the field with Richie Tozier can tell the boy barely knows which end of the bat to hold, and not even two full years of playing and a growth spurt is enough to catch him up to his friends who make up the rest of their unofficial team.

Stanley Uris, their best player, has offered to help the boy in the past, but even he has deemed Richie a lost cause and grants him the permanent role of catcher when they come to find the bespectacled boy is quite good at planting himself behind whoever is up to bat and heckling them ‘til the cows come home. Some might have been upset or even offended by that, but Richie is just happy to be a part of the team, happy that they didn't just toss him to the curb when they realized he really was no great asset to them. No, they want him there, and it shows, and he is grateful, but this does not mean he isn't taking the new kid’s apparent knack for the game as a somewhat personal blow.

They are in the midst of that day’s game when it happens. It is an unspoken rule of sorts between them that, weather permitting (which, as far as Stanley is concerned, means anything short of torrential downpour) they will all meet at the sandlot - more commonly known to the rest of the town as Voigt Field - every day at 10 o’clock sharp. _“Last one to the lot buys lunch!”_ And so it has been for the last two summers.        

The summer of 1991 in particular would go down in Derry history as one of the hottest the town had ever seen, and that day is especially ruthless. The humidity fizzles in the air around them and each intake of breath is dry, unsatisfying, leaving them gulping like a fish out of water.

Richie has been in his usual position, crouching just behind home-plate with his mitt outstretched in front of him, bracing to catch Beverly’s pitch, though he knows deep down that nothing can prepare his fingers for the kickback of catching anything that girl threw at him. He has long gotten over the fact that Beverly Marsh is a better player than him - she is better than the other boys, too, even Stanley will admit it, so that certainly lessens the blow.

Eddie Kaspbrak is up to bat; he is the youngest, the smallest, _and_ the fastest of them all, so it is no surprise to Richie that Stanley would send him up next. With Mike Hanlon darting between the first two bases and Bill Denbrough gearing up to slide home, it doesn't take a rocket scientist for anyone to guess Stanley’s plan, and it is especially easy for Richie; being catcher allows him a lot of time to observe, so even if he can't hit the ball himself, that doesn't mean he can't tell you the best move to make when you do, and if someone had asked him then, he would have told them Stanley _was_ making the best move. Eddie is quick, so if he hits the ball far enough, he can bring those two home as well as himself - but Stanley has forgotten one very important thing: how easy it is to get under Eddie’s skin.

“Lookin’ good today, Eds,” Richie calls cheekily, his voice somewhat muffled as it is practically traveling through his mitt; he'd learned a long time ago not to let any ball thrown by Beverly Marsh collide with his mouth. He watches as she winds the ball up, hears the familiar snap of her bracelet crack against her wrist as the ball barrels towards home plate, and just as Eddie makes to swing, he asks, “Did Mrs. K pick out those jeans?”

_Swoosh._

_“Strike one!”_ Richie bellows, and Eddie whirls around to glare at him as he tosses the ball back to Beverly.  

“I fucking hate you, Tozier,” Eddie growls, panting even though he hasn't even run yet. Eddie was told by his mother long ago that he has asthma and that it always acts up in the heat; he’d had to sneak out of his house through the back door to even make it to the lot on time that day as his mother had forbid him from leaving the house, afraid he’d catch his death in the form of an asthma attack brought on by running or “whatever you get up to with those _hooligans_!”

“You love me, Eds,” Richie teases, blowing him a kiss.

Eddie raises the bat in his hands high over his head and makes to swing at the boy before Mike calls from first base, “Can you two finish your lover's quarrel when we're not in the middle of a game?!”

“Sure thing, Mikey! I was just tellin’ Eds how delicious he looks in his new clothes!” Richie calls back, and Bill snorts so loud it gets the whole lot of them into a fit of hysterics.

“You're the worst person I’ve ever met in my life,” Eddie deadpans, and Richie leaps to his feet to press a wet kiss to the boy’s cheek that Eddie immediately wipes off.

“I’ll pretend I didn't see that,” Richie sighs as he retakes his place behind Eddie, who flips him off lavishly before turning back towards the game, propping the bat on his shoulder as he waits for Beverly to throw the ball again. She tosses it once, twice, three times into her own mitt before she brings it to her lips and then it’s flying through the air again, right towards Eddie. “And I promise not to tell everybody how cute your ass looks from here.”

_Swoosh._

_"Strike tw - ahhh!”_ Richie shouts just as Eddie tosses the bat aside and tackles him to the ground, his small hands balled into fists that collide with the side of Richie’s head, threatening to snap his glasses again. The two of them laugh maniacally as they roll around in the dirt, Eddie pummeling him. Richie lets him, knowing that he deserves it, until Beverly’s voice from the pitcher’s mound calls them back.

“C’mon, guys! Quit foolin’ around up there!” she shouts, but there’s a smile in her voice that even she can’t mask. Eddie pops up from the ground, attempts to dust the dirt from his knees that he would have to explain to his mother later, and retrieves the bat from where it had rolled off towards the small dugout that they’d fashioned for themselves out of a tent from Bill’s shed. Richie throws the ball to Beverly, who simply throws her hand up as easily as if she were waving hello and catches it with a pop of her gum.

“I’ll letcha have this one, Eds - swear,” Richie insists, crossing his fingers over his heart, and Eddie rolls his eyes before averting his gaze to where Beverly stands waiting, already poised for the wind up. She bops the nose of her cap down just a touch to block out the ever-persistent sun before hiking her right leg up, and she twists her torso as fluidly as a swimmer might flip underwater, her arm extending forward as the ball seems to explode out of her hand.

Richie does not lie - he actually keeps quiet on Eddie’s third swing. Eddie brings the bat around to meet the ball, the noise of the collision so loud it might have broken glass, and he’s off, booking towards first base as Stanley scrambles after the ball. Bill and Mike fly one after the other back to home plate. Richie is waiting there for them, grinning as he claps them both on the back, but his grin evaporates when he turns his attention back to the field. Eddie should have been coming up to third at that point - the kid was like a wind-up toy once he really got going - but instead, Richie watches as Eddie’s knees buckle not two feet past second base and he all but collapses there, narrowly avoiding a face-plant only because Beverly spots him much faster and runs to catch the boy as he falls, to the ground, wheezing.

 _“Get his inhaler!”_ Beverly shrieks as she lowers him further onto the ground, hoping that in all his rapid gasps for breath, Eddie cannot feel her hands trembling where she holds his sides. Bill is rifling through Eddie’s bag, throwing things behind him as he grapples for the tiny aspirator that is so adamantly evading him now. Stanley joins him, and together the two of them tear the bag apart until Stanley finally locates it with a cry and takes off to where Eddie lies panting, his head resting in Richie’s lap and his hand gripping Beverly’s so tightly her fingers are purple.

“Here, Eddie,” Stanley huffs, handing it to the boy, who all but jams the nozzle into his mouth and slams his finger down on the trigger. His friends do not even have a second to sigh in relief, for they watch in horror as Eddie’s eyes widen and his chest begins to rise and fall more quickly.

 _“Empty,”_ he wheezes. “I can’t - taste it -- ”

“Shit -- fuck -- _Bill,_ let’s go!” Richie bellows, carefully depositing Eddie’s head into Mike’s lap and running to grab his bike where it sits leaning against the fence; he runs nearly the whole length of the block with Bill at his heels before he even hops onto the bike, and Bill runs alongside him, both of them trying not to think about what might happen if Mr. Keene had decided to close early for the holiday.

On the lot, Eddie begins to cry.

“Eddie, don't get upset, man - it'll only make it worse,” Mike says, the only one amongst them who’d even tried to remain calm, though he is suddenly very grateful that a pounding heart is not visible to the naked eye. Beverly is brushing Eddie’s hair from his forehead, her own tears gathered at the tip of her nose, when she suddenly looks up to see a boy she does not recognize running towards them, a look of concern on his face.

“Hey, is he alright?” the boy pants; he’s a stout boy with a kind face, a face that is beet-red as it appears he  ran all the way there from the house on the corner. “I saw him fall down when I was looking out my window - thought he'd just tripped, but then I saw those other two take off, and I knew it was more than that…”

“He has asthma - well, sort of, kind of, uh - his inhaler is empty,” Stanley informs, and the boy's eyes widen. “Our friends are going to get his medicine.”

“You should sit him up - the air will get to his lungs better,” the boy says, and each of the teens gape at him. Mike moves first to take Eddie’s hands in his, and as Beverly pushes from the back, the two help Eddie into a sitting position. Beverly keeps her hand going in a circle on the small of the boy’s back as he sucks in air, and she can feel with each intake that his breathing is becoming more regular. Stanley peers at Eddie in amazement before his eyes flicker to the new boy.

“You were right,” he says, and the boy somehow manages to flush a deeper red than his sunburnt face already is.

“My aunt’s a nurse,” he shrugs. Eddie looks over to him, his breathing still not quite where it needs to be, but he manages a smile.

“Thanks,” he wheezes.

“Don't mention it.”

“You got a name, new kid?” Beverly wonders as she rubs Eddie’s back, and the boy seems to shrink beneath her penetrating gaze, blue eyes glistening from the recently fallen tears that still line her face. She does not bother to clear them away.

“Oh, uh - yeah - I - Ben. I’m Ben. Ben Hanscom.”

“Well, Ben Hanscom, anyone who saves my friend is my friend too,” Beverly decides, and the other boys nod. “I’m Beverly. This is Stan, Mike, and Eddie.” The boys wave in time with Beverly’s roll-call, almost like it’s choreographed, and Ben waves back just as Richie and Bill come shooting around the corner, a prescription bag clasped in Bill’s hand.

“W-we g-got it!” he shouts, reaching the group first, and he blinks stupidly when he sees Eddie upright, apparently fine. “How - ?”

“Took you bozos long enough,” Eddie laughs, still sounding out of breath. He takes the bag from Bill and takes a hit from his new inhaler before continuing, “I would've been fuckin' dead by now if it weren't for Ben.”

“Who the fuck is Ben?” Richie asks, still pedaling his way over to the rest of them. Eddie points to the newest addition to the group and Richie begins to circle him on his bike. “You look familiar - _wait,_ you're that new kid, right? Haystack?”

“Hanscom,” Ben corrects.

“Same difference,” Richie shrugs. “So, you saved our little Eds, huh? How does one return such a kindness?”

“Oh, I don't want anything -- ”

“You wanna play ball?” Stanley wonders, and the rest of the group groans.

“We _can't_ play anymore today, Stanley,” Richie says. “Not with Eds poppin’ a lung on us like that - we’re lucky Mrs. K hasn’t shown up to tear our hides yet! I swear that woman just fuckin’ _knows -_ \- ”

“Okay, sure, _Eddie_ can't play anymore, but you don't mind if the game goes on without you, do ya, Eds?” Stanley asks, and Eddie shrugs. He truly doesn’t mind; he might've if he felt better, but the feeling of breathlessness is still lingering in his chest, like a phantom pain. “See, Eds doesn't mind. So how ‘bout it, new kid - you playin’?” Ben nods nervously and Stanley claps his hands together with a grin. “Alrighty, then - you’re up to bat…”

Ben takes the baseball bat from Bill graciously, returning his wide grin with a smile of his own, and he takes his place at home plate, propping the bat on his shoulder as he bends his knees slightly, eyes trained carefully on Beverly where she stands poised on the pitcher’s mound. Mike calls out to her, saying something that Ben can hardly hear, but it makes Beverly laugh so hard she throws her head back, the curls not squashed beneath her cap flying wildly about her. Ben can hear Richie mumbling something behind him, but he does not allow himself to tune into whatever dig the other boy is undoubtedly making. Ben has not played baseball in years, not since elementary school, back when everybody played together and it didn’t matter how fast you could run as long as you played fair. He isn’t sure why, but after he had helped Eddie, he feels like he has a lot to prove to these kids, and so he plants his feet firmly beneath him and waits for Beverly to throw the ball.

Beverly sends a wink his way, and that is almost enough to throw him off of his game, but Ben clears his head with a quick shake just in time to watch as she sends the ball hurtling towards him. He brings the bat around sharply, hitting the ball with a _crack!_ and he doesn’t even register Richie’s cry of  _“Oh, shit!”_ He simply takes off, running as fast as his legs will carry him, and somehow he manages to round two bases before Mike is even on his tail. He can hear the taller boy gaining on him, and while his thighs are screaming and his chest is growing tighter and tighter, Ben pushes himself all the way back to home plate, landing there with a gasp that could hardly be heard over the raucous cheers of the other players.

“Damn, new kid!” Stanley shouts, clapping the still panting boy on the back and beaming brightly. “That was some fuckin’ play!” he insists, and Ben grins back at him.

“Didn’t -- expect that -- huh?” Ben asks jokingly, and Stanley flushes.

“No, that’s not -- I-I meant -- ”

“I know what you meant,” Ben insists kindly once he’s regained his breath, squeezing Stanley’s shoulder, and Stanley relaxes immediately, glad that the other boy was just messing with him. The rest of the group joins them then, all of them grinning brightly save for Mike.

“What’s up, Mikey?” Stanley asks, worry in his voice, and Mike holds up his mitt, turning it so that they can see the ball - or rather, what’s left of it; the red stitching that usually wraps around the ball is completely undone, fraying the edges of the fabric in various places.

All seven of the teenagers groan.

“That’s pretty impressive, Hanscom,” Beverly notes with half of a smirk, but her voice is solemn. “Only problem is we can’t play with a busted ball…”

“Sorry,” Ben blushes vibrantly, looking to his toes, but he looks up again quickly when he feels somebody’s arm slink around his shoulders. It belongs to Eddie, who is smiling at him kindly.

“No worries, buddy. We’ll just go buy a new one. I’ve got a running tab down at the drugstore in town,” Eddie informs. “Who wants to come with?” Richie tosses his hand into the air immediately.

“I’d follow you anywhere, Eddie my love,” he vows, puckering his lips and leaning into the other boy’s space just as Eddie shoves him away with a laugh.

“My worst nightmare…” Eddie insists playfully, and Richie mimes getting stabbed, doubling over in a lavish display of pain.

“I’m hit! I’m hit!” he cries to the group’s laughter, thriving off of the sound, just before Stanley grabs a hold of his shirt collar and hoists him back up into a standing position.

“Alright, enough of that, Chaplin, or we’ll never get to Keene’s -- ”

“Um, Charlie Chaplin was a _silent_ comedian, Staniel,” Richie corrects.

“Well, then, you’d do well to pick up a few pointers from him, Trashmouth,” Stanley insists as he retrieves his yarmulke from the pocket of his shorts, returning it to his head for the time being. The boy only ever removes it when he feels it is in danger of getting damaged or defiled in any way, and since he is almost always sliding all over the sandlot, baseball is one of those times he opts to take it off. He settles it at the crown of his head, and his friends would swear they can almost see a certain tension leave his shoulders once it’s back in place. He turns towards Eddie and Ben. “Ready?”

 

And that is how Ben Hanscom comes to be standing beside Richie Tozier, tapping the end of his baseball bat against the toe of his scuffed sneaker in time with the music they could both hear pouring from inside Mr. Keene’s drugstore. Ben’s face is tomato red, a combination of embarrassment and the eighty-degree weather they were currently dripping in as they wait for --

“Ah, _finally!_ ” Richie groans when the bell hanging atop the drugstore’s door chimes to announce the return of their friends. “Jeez, Eds - Mr. Keene sees you every other day, he couldn't have possibly had anything new to tell ya…” he teases, pinching the smaller boy’s cheek, and Eddie shoves his hand away sharply, feeling a color so vibrant flush his cheeks that the freckles dotting his nose all but vanished.

“Beep beep, Richie,” Stanley insists, and Richie falls silent with a roll of his eyes as he pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

“What’s… _beep beep, Richie_ mean?” Ben asked kindly, clearly trying not to be a bother.

“Trashmouth Tozier here’s mouth is like Roadrunner, so we tell him beep beep when we want him to _shut the fuck up_ ,” Stanley says, directing the last words right at Richie, who simply rolls his eyes, looks away and flips Stanley the bird. “Here,” Stanley says, tossing a brand new baseball to Ben, who catches it clumsily against his chest. “Try not to annihilate anymore of those today, Hanscom -- ” Stanley means to sound stern, but he is grinning too wide; he too is impressed with the new kid. “Eddie is runnin’ up one hell of a tab for this week, between balls and havin’ to get some more of his medicine earlier, and it's my turn to foot the bill.”

“S-Sorry, Stan,” Ben squeaks, eyes trained to the ground, but Stanley waves his hand as if to cast the apology away, not unlike how one might swat at a fly.

“No worries, new kid. And hey - Bill’s the one with the stutter around here,” Stanley says, and Eddie and Richie chuckle along with him, mostly because they know if Bill were there to hear the comment, he would have laughed the hardest of all. Ben stays silent, not feeling like he has permission just yet, but he does crack a smile. “Now, c’mon - let's get back to the lot. I think we can get another game in before dinner.”

Richie jabs the kickstand of his bike out of place and goes pedaling down the street back towards the sandlot, leaving the other three to chase after him as he whoops with a sort of laughter that belongs solely to summertime. Stanley catches up to him just at the corner, and he darts past Richie on his own bike with a sort of battle cry, his torso bending over the handlebars of his bike, shoulders hunching forward as the two of them shoot down the hill like a pair of bullets through a barrel, picking up speed as the pavement slopes beneath their tires.

“Are they always like that?” Ben asks as he and Eddie walk leisurely after them. Eddie had left his bike behind at the lot, claiming he didn't mind the walk, but the truth was that he was still spooked from his attack earlier and didn't want to incite another one. He wishes he could run beside the other boys, like he does on the sandlot, but he knows it wouldn’t be safe, even if his asthma symptoms are merely a condition of fear. Eddie’s mother conditioned him from a young age to be reliant on his inhaler whenever he gets nervous, and even though Eddie was informed at age 13 that his medications are all placebos, the urge to taste the camphor on his tongue is sometimes too strong to go without it. Ben can tell the boy is afraid, but he doesn’t mind the walk either. Owing to his aunt’s financial troubles, Ben does not have a bike of his own, so he’s used to walking everywhere all summer and is frankly grateful to not have to explain that to his new friend.

Eddie chuckles. “Yeah, they're always like that.” He holds his hand up - a silent request for the baseball that Ben is still holding in the mitt that Mike had leant him. He tosses him the ball and Eddie catches it with a smile, twirling it in his hand and peering at it as if it were made of gold. “Stan and Richie will make anything a competition. Honestly, I’m not too far behind them… But don’t let them know I told you that.”

“Secret’s safe with me,” Ben smiles, but it falls quickly with a sigh. “I’m not sure he likes me… Richie, I mean,” Ben admits quietly, because he feels like he can say something like that to Eddie and not have it trickle through the rest of the group, and he is right, but he feels his nerves spike when he sees a frown on the other boy’s face.

“Nah, man, don't take that personal - Richie rags on _everyone,_ swear... Honestly, if he wasn't giving you shit, I’d be a little worried,” Eddie insists, patting the boy on the shoulder. “Just give it right back to him - he’ll probably like ya even more for it.”

“Yeah, okay,” Ben laughs, but Eddie can tell he still does not believe him.

“You sent that ball outta the park today, Ben,” Eddie adds, “so honestly? Richie can kiss my ass if he doesn't like you - I do.” Eddie says this simply, but Ben feels as if he is walking on air the entire way back to the lot, elated with this new camaraderie and thanking whatever force in the universe had pushed him to peer out of his bedroom window at a ball game that afternoon.

“Did you two get lost or somethin’?” Richie calls loudly from where he is sitting amongst the rest of the group, watching as Eddie and Ben finally join them near the dugout tent that seems near collapse. “I was about to send out the dogs, Eds - thought Haystack might’ve eaten you or somethin’...”

“Isn't that your job?” Ben cracks, and Richie’s mouth falls open as his friends burst into shouts of laughter. Eddie nearly topples over, grabbing hold of Ben’s shirt sleeve to keep himself upright. Stanley’s face is buried in his hands, his entire body shaking with the silent laughter that is crescendoing in his chest. Beverly has tears in her eyes and Bill has fallen into the dirt and is pounding his fist on the ground, little clouds of sand kicking up around the points of impact.

“Holy shit! _Finally!”_ Mike howls before getting to his feet to throw his arm around Ben’s shoulders. “Haystack, my man, you don't know how _long_ it has been since somebody put Trashmouth in his place.”

 _“Hey!”_ Richie pipes up, and Mike pulls him to his other side to ruffle his curls.

“Not u-used to being the b-b-butt of the joke, Tozier?” Bill chuckles once he had regained his breath.

“Yeah, c’mon Richie, that was long overdue,” Beverly reminds.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Richie grumbles, but he sends a smile and a nod Ben’s way - _alright, you’re in._

Eddie nudges Ben with his elbow. _See?_ he mouths, and Ben feels the knot in his stomach loosen, and he never questions his place with them from then on. It is that simple, he guesses - one hit to the group’s resident walking mouth and he’s in. He turns to watch as they all get to their feet, their faces still shining with the ghosts of their laughs, and they gather up their mitts to retake their places for the next round. Stanley removes his yamaka and tucks it gingerly into his pocket before grabbing the bat from Richie. Ben is the only one who hangs back, feeling bad about leaving Eddie behind to go play even though the boy insists it’s fine.

“I’m tired anyway,” Ben shrugs, and Eddie sends a smile his way, grateful for the company. The two sit in a comfortable silence for a while, just watching the others circle the bases. “So, you guys play every day?”

“Shit, if Stan had his way, we'd never _stop,_ ” Eddie says. “But yeah, during the summers, we meet here everyday at 10 o’clock -- ”

 _“Last one to the lot buys lunch!”_ Beverly finishes the mantra in perfect timing from the pitcher’s mound, winking at the two sitting boys before she sends a curveball hurtling towards Stanley, who brings the bat around in a swing so graceful it would've brought tears to the Babe’s eyes. The ball soars high up over their heads and bounces three times before it rolls into the street, and Stanley whoops and hollers his entire way around the bases, barely slowing down as he tucks his left leg beneath him to slide home, leaving Richie to hack dramatically in the cloud of sand he sends billowing up around them.

“Beautiful, Stanley! Just beautiful!” Mike cheers, clapping his hands boisterously as Bill runs to retrieve the ball. Stanley takes a gracious bow, bending so far forward his nose almost hits home-plate, and Richie aims a kick right at the boy’s rear end. Stanley stumbles forward a bit before turning around to bop Richie upside the head playfully. “Hey, watch it there, Richie doesn't need anymore hits today.”

_“Heard that!”_

 

They would've played ball all day if it weren't for a sudden call of, _“Billy, dinner!”_ slicing through the heavy summer air to snap them out of the game; all seven of them turn towards the neighborhood they had managed to shut out for what seemed like days, impervious to anything that was not each other to the point that they had quite literally forgotten to stop and eat lunch. When their eyes finally leave the sandlot, it is to find Bill’s little brother flagging him down from the steps leading to their porch. Georgie Denbrough flaps his arms high over his head like he was aiming to take flight, and a smile spreads across Bill’s face as he waves back to the little boy.  

“I’ll be right there, sport!” he shouts before turning to gather up his things; the others help him dismantle the tent and fold it up, returning it to the backpack that Bill uses to transport it to the sandlot each day. “Thanks, guys.”

“Good game, fellas,” Stanley declares, clapping Mike on the back before slinging his arm around Beverly’s shoulders. “Same time tomorrow?” The entire group rolls their eyes at him.

“Stanley, are you really going to say that every day?” Richie groans. “It's been _two years -_ you really think we're gonna just forget to show up?”

“Tozier, I think you'd forget your fucking head if there weren't five people to remind you every day.” Stanley shoots back slyly.

“Ah - _six_ now,” Beverly corrects, punching Ben’s arm softly, and the boy flushes crimson from his neck all the way to the tops of his ears.

“Hey, guys, wait a sec!” Mike says, running to the things that Bill had taken out of the makeshift dugout that they all make out of the Denbrough’s pop-up tent. He grabs his camera and sets it up on the fence. “We gotta take a group photo!”

“Yeah, Hanscom!” Beverly smiles, pushing in towards Ben and shoving him into Bill. “You’re part of the club now!”

“The _Losers’_ Club!” Richie laughs, draping himself over Eddie’s back, who frowns in a way that doesn’t look at all miserable when Mike turns around to get into the frame.

“Okay, everyone! On three, say losers!” Mike cries, crouching in front of them all with his arms splayed. “One, two, three!”

 _“Losers!”_ they all scream.

_Click._

_“Billy, c’mon!”_ Georgie’s shrill cry reaches them once again, his tiny hands cupped around his mouth to magnify his voice, and Bill chuckles as they all split apart.

“I’m c-c-comin’ now, Georgie!” he calls back, and he mounts his bike with the strap of his backpack slung over his shoulder and one of his hands still shoved into his mitt. “See you l-l-later, alligators!” he calls to his friends as he pedals back towards home.

“After a while, crocodile!” the others respond in perfect unison, even Ben. They all watch Bill ride away with a cry of, _“Hi-ho Silver, AWAAAAY!_ ” and Georgie’s excited laughter could be heard all the way from their porch. The group of kids watch from the sandlot as Bill hops off his bike, tossing it onto his front lawn, and he turns just in time to hold his hands out to catch his little brother as he leaps into his waiting arms. Bill props the boy on his hip like an infant and the two of them wave one final time before disappearing into their house.

“You wanna come over for dinner, Spaghetti Man?” Richie asks.

“Stop calling me that!” Eddie cries, slapping Richie in the chest with the back of his hand. “What’re you having?”

Richie throws an arm around Eddie’s shoulder as Mike snaps a few photos of them all in the setting sun - a common occurrence that none of them mind at all - leading him to where all of their bikes are ditched by the fence blocking them from the road. “Why don’t you come find out?”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Ben wakes up to the sound of his blinds smacking his bedroom window as raindrops pelt down from the sky like grenades. It had been so scorchingly hot the day before that the boy had went to bed with his window open, so now, when he forces himself up to slam it shut, he finds himself standing in a puddle, the carpet beneath his bare feet soaked.

“Shit,” he grumbles sleepily, squishing his toes into the wet fabric as he rubs vigorously at his eyes, peering out at the storm raging outside. He frowns, realizing what that means: he would be stuck in his house alone all day while his aunt went to work at the hospital in the town over, because if the harsh whistling of the wind and the whipping back and forth of the lone tree in his front lawn was any indication, there would be no baseball game today.

He heads downstairs to retrieve a towel from the laundry room to clean up the mess in his bedroom and finds his aunt in her scrubs at the stove, whipping up breakfast at lightspeed. Ben looks at the clock hanging over the threshold into the kitchen; it reads 8:45 A.M. She is running late. Again.

“Ben, sweetie, here's your food - I’m sorry I can't stay and eat with you today, but I gotta get to work,” Josie Hanscom says when she sees him standing there. Ben doesn’t remember much of his father anymore, seeing as he was lost to the war when Ben was still quite young, but sometimes when he looks at his aunt, the shape of her face, her salt-and-pepper hair, he sees flashes of a man with her same smile. He is glad to have his aunt, especially after all he’s been through, and he wants to tell her all about what happened yesterday, how he saved a boy’s life and made six friends in the process - _six, Aunt Jo!_ But she is hurriedly placing a plate loaded with eggs, sausage, and two pieces of toast on one of the placemats on their tiny kitchen table and looks like she doesn’t have much time to talk. She does, however, plant a quick kiss atop his head before grabbing her purse and keys from where they hung on the wall. “Your cousin stayed at a friend’s last night, so I’ll be picking him up after my shift ends. Eat your breakfast like a good boy and I'll see you later, alright? I love you.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Ben nods, and she pats his cheek once before flipping the hood of her slicker up over her head and heading out the door into the rain. “Love you, too.”

Ben sighs and takes a seat in front of his plate, taking a few bites of his eggs before smearing a generous amount of jam on his toast, and just as he was gearing himself up to try to have a good day despite having to spend it stuck inside, he heard a knock at the front door.

 _Aunt Jo’s forgotten something and locked the door behind her,_ he thinks as he gets to his feet, brow furrowed. He waddles sleepily to the door, a yawn still deep in his chest, but he snaps completely out of his stupor when he opens the door to find Beverly Marsh standing on his porch.

She’s positively drenched from the top of her fiery head to the ripped open, scuffed toes of her converse sneakers. She does not have a coat on and Ben thinks that it makes perfect sense that Beverly Marsh would be someone who didn't shy away from a storm. Mike Hanlon is beside her bundled in a tattered plaid jacket, its fur hood turned up over his head.

They smile at him. “Hey, Haystack!” Beverly cheers, much too energetic for just nine in the morning. Ben takes a step back to let them in the door and she shakes her hair out before stepping inside, not unlike a dog after a bath. “You comin’ or what?”

“C-Comin’ where?” he chokes out after closing the door behind her, his hands flying to conceal his chest. He felt his cheeks grow unbearably warm when he looked down to find he was still in his _Looney Tunes_ pajama pants and a _New Kids On The Block t-shirt_ , but the two of them were either doing him the simple courtesy of ignoring his current state of disarray, or they simply didn't care. He barely knew them still, but something made him think it was the latter.

“To Stan’s! Movie day!” Mike answers as if it were obvious.

“We always camp out in Stan’s basement when the weather's shitty and we can't play outside,” Beverly explains when she sees the confusion on Ben’s face. “I wasn't sure if Eddie or anybody else let you know that, so Mikey and I figured we’d come grab you and we could head over together.” Ben blinks at them stupidly.

“You, uh… gonna go change or what, Hanscom?” Mike chuckles and Ben flushes. “I mean, you could always go like that, but I can't promise you Richie won't have an absolute _field day_ \-- ”

“ _No!_ I’ll - I mean, I’ll go change, just - you can - if you wanna sit in the living room - I’ll be right - yeah…” Ben says, nearly tripping as he attempts to climb the stairs backwards. He turns on the third step and barrels up the rest of the flight, leaving Beverly and Mike to wait for him in the kitchen.

As soon as he's out of sight, Beverly slaps Mike’s arm.

 _“Ow,_ Bev - holy shit!” Mike hisses, rubbing the spot on his arm where she struck him.

“Don't be so mean to Ben,” she says sternly.

“Oh, please - you know I think the kid’s alright. That's nothing I wouldn't have said to any of the rest of us…”

“ _I_ know that, but Ben doesn't. He's new, Mikey - we gotta ease him into this.” Bev insists, and Mike starts to laugh.

“ _Ease_ him? There's no such thing as easing anyone into this group, Bevs…” Mike smiles. “And besides, he was at the sandlot yesterday - if he hasn’t run for the hills yet after gettin’ a load of Richie, I think his skin’s tough enough to deal with the rest of us.” Beverly rolls her eyes, but she's smiling too as Mike bounds halfway up the flight of steps himself to shout, “It ain't a fashion show, Haystack - let’s get shakin’, baby!”

“If you want to call me baby, at least buy me dinner first,” Ben jokes just as he appears at the top of the stairs then, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans and the hood of his sweatshirt turned upward in preparation for the downpour raging outside.

Mike laughs loudly. “I love this kid! See, Marsh - Haystack fits right in.”

“Great,” Beverly sighs melodramatically. “Another smartass… How ever did I get stuck with all of you?”

“Love is blind, sweetheart,” Mike decrees, winding his arm around her shoulders. “Now, c’mon, kids, let's get to Stanley’s house before it turns into a fucking hurricane out there.” 

 

The Uris household is snuggled cozily in the richest part of town, which is only a couple blocks away from the sandlot, but it still feels like another world. Ben can’t help but notice the fact that there’s a pristine black garbage can at the end of every driveway in this neighborhood, and a tiny iron fence enclosing the trees that dot the sidewalks, all evenly spaced and perfectly trimmed. Ben feels very out of place here, not unlike how he felt walking into a new school with just three days left before summer and zero time to make any friends.

 _Until now,_ he thinks to himself, a small smile coming to his face as he follows after Beverly and Mike, who look even more out of place in this neighborhood than he did, Beverly with her baggy clothes and old shoes and Mike with his dark skin and work-worn jeans; Mike especially sticks out like a sore thumb, but if he notices the way passersby on the streets look at him as he goes along - like he’s a madman, like he has absolutely no business being a black boy on this side of Derry - he pays them no mind. In fact, he smiles back at them candidly, and Ben thinks that Mike Hanlon is just about the bravest kid he’s ever met.

When they arrive at Stanley’s house, Ben wolf-whistles quietly as he takes in all three stories of it. “What do Stan’s parents _do?”_  he asks as he joins the two of them on the porch where they’re kicking their shoes off to join the three other pairs of shoes that were tucked under the windowsill in an attempt to keep them dry; the rest of the group is already inside.

“His dad’s the town rabbi,” Mike explains as Beverly opens the front door without knocking. “In a town like Derry, that basically makes him a millionaire...” There is no resentment in the boy’s voice at all. “And he’s cool with letting us all destroy his basement every few weeks, even if he is a little bit of a tight -- ”

“Good morning, Michael,” a soft but controlled voice hits their ears and the three children gulp as they peer up at Stanley’s father, who towers over them not unlike his son does. He is already dressed for Temple. “And good morning, Beverly.”

“Good morning, Mr. Uris,” the two children chime.

“And who’s this? Your name, son?” Donald Uris asks, eyeing Ben carefully and waiting for him to speak up.

“B-Ben. Hanscom, sir. I-I just moved here.”

“Oh, yes - Stanley did mention you. I hear you’re quite the ball player.” The way the words fall from his lips leave Ben to question whether this is meant as a compliment or not. Beverly and Mike remain utterly silent, so Ben just shrugs.

“I guess so. It was real nice of everyone to let me play with ‘em yesterday…” Ben says, and Stanley’s father simply nods, just a slight twitch of his chin, and Ben wonders if the man has ever cracked a smile in his life.

“Well, I’ll leave you children to it, then. I must be off anyway. I trust you two will inform Benjamin here of the house rules?” Donald Uris challenges, and Beverly and Mike both nod hurriedly.

“Absolutely, sir. Of course.”

“Very good,” the man nods, and he takes his hat and jacket from the coat-rack beside the door, tossing both of them on, and just as he makes to open the door, he whirls around and adds, “And please - do try to keep a handle on that Tozier boy? For once?”

“We’ll try, sir…” Mike laments, knowing just how difficult a task that is. Stanley’s father tips his hat to them robotically and then is gone, closing the door behind him. All three of the children let out a sigh, shoulders relaxing instantly.

“Oh, yeah, Mikey - he’s a real peach,” Ben grumbles, and Beverly snorts as she heads towards the door that will lead them down into the basement, both boys following at her heels.

“Hey, _at least_ he lets us in his house - Stan the Man has the best house for parties, Haystack, so yeah, we all put up with his tight-wad Pops when we have to…” Mike explains as they descend the stairs, and they can already hear their friends voices, specifically Richie and Stanley, who sound like they’re arguing - _again._

“We are _not_ watching _The Burbs_ again, Tozier - that’s the third time this month,” Stanley snaps, whacking the VHS out of his friend’s hands. Richie yelps as if he’d struck his child.

“This is a _classic,_ Stanley! How dare you insult Tom Hanks in this way!”

“All in favor of never watching _The Burbs_ again for the rest of our lives, raise your hand,” Stanley decrees, hand shooting up into the air. Eddie, Bill, Beverly, and Mike all replicate him, leaving the whole of them to turn to Ben.

“I’ve never seen it…” he admits sheepishly with a shrug.

 _“A-ha!”_ Richie cries, running over to Ben to link his arm through his. “See, as his friend, I cannot allow Haystack to go on without viewing this iconic piece of American film history.”

“It’s a shit movie, Ben,” Bill explains. “You’re r-r-really not missing much, tr-trust us.”

“My vote is still on Batman,” Eddie pipes up from the sofa.

“Oooh, yes! I agree with Kaspbrak,” Mike says, high-fiving Eddie as he heads to take a seat on the arm of the couch.

“This is mutiny!” Richie shouts. “Just because _Eddie_ wants to watch Batman -- ”

“Michael Keaton _is_ very dreamy,” Beverly reminds, nudging Eddie, whose face shifts through a kaleidoscope of emotions before finally landing on flustered, and Richie slaps his hand to his forehead.

“I need new friends…” he sighs.

“There’s the door!” Stanley chimes, and Richie’s jaw hits the floor with a gasp that is half-playful and half-genuine.

“Ouch! That hurt, Stanley!” he shrieks. “Haystack must be my only real friend here…”

“Can I politely decline that position?” Ben jokes and Beverly lets out a snort, hiding her wide grin behind her hand. Richie’s hands fly to his heart and he stumbles backwards, falling to the floor beside the dog bed near the foot of the fireplace. He turns until he’s nose-to-nose with quite possibly the oldest dog Ben has ever seen, a basset hound with long, floppy ears and sad eyes.

“Bam-Bam, help a pal out, would ya?” Richie begs, scratching affectionately behind the dog’s ears. “I’m dyin’ out here…”

“Leave Bambino out of this!” Stanley cries, and the dog’s head turns toward the sound of his owner’s voice, his tail immediately starting to thud wildly as it wags, hitting the floor behind him. “Besides, he would never betray me - right, Bino?” Bambino lets out a thunderous bark that Ben wasn’t expecting, and all of them laugh as Richie pouts before opening his mouth to speak again. Eddie cuts him off sharply.

“Oh, Richie, just _shut up_ and watch Batman,” he sighs, reaching for Richie’s wrist so that he can pull him onto the sofa between him and Bill. Richie flops down next to him, defeated, but with the shadow of a grin on his face.

“Yeah, okay, _fine,_ ” he sighs dramatically, throwing his arms up to rest them across the back of the couch behind Eddie and Bill’s heads. “But I won’t be happy about it.”

 

The kids spend the remainder of the morning working through a handful of Stanley’s VHS tapes, finally watching _The Burbs_ after Richie throws a royal fit of epic proportions (“I will pitch myself off this roof if I am denied Tom Hanks any longer - Richie Tozier is _not_ above becoming a martyr!”) while the storm rages on outside. Just as the credits begin to roll on _Ferris Bueller's Day Off,_  with Richie trying desperately and a bit nonsensically to explain the epic love story between Ferris and Cameron (“Eddie will back me up here, he’s just like Cameron!” “Am not!” “You are if I’m Ferris!”), Mike snatches up the remote from where it had been sitting on the coffee table and turns the television off.

“Let’s play a game,” he suggests, and a wicked glint flashes in Beverly’s eye; she had been growing bored of the movies as well, and was ready to jump on board with anything but would especially never turn down a good game.

“Never Have I Ever?” the girl suggests, and she is met with a chorus of excited murmurs.

“Ooh, the _perfect_ game to play with our new buddy, Haystack,” Richie grins, throwing an arm around Ben before adopting a Voice, the casual drone of Mary Beth Peil. _“Getting to_ know _you, getting to know_ all _about you -- ”_

“I’m never going to forgive your grandma for taking you to see _The King and I_ ,” Eddie groans. “None of us have known peace since,” he says to Ben, who is trying and failing to squirm out of Richie’s chokehold. He now has Ben’s face cradled to his chest and is swaying back and forth on the sofa, singing loudly and entirely off-key. “Let him go, Richie - he’s never gonna wanna hang out with us again if you keep manhandling him,” Eddie insists, and because the request is Eddie’s, Richie listens, releasing Ben from his grasp, but not before placing a kiss on top of the boy’s head.

“There. Now that I’ve serenaded you, that makes you an official member of The Losers’ Club!” Richie chimes.

“Oh, lucky me…” Ben says, but he’s smiling. He’s never been a member of anything, he’s never been a _part_ of anything; he didn’t play sports because he was afraid the other boys would tease him because he wasn’t as fit as them, and he wasn’t smart enough to be a huge asset to any academic clubs, so he just avoided those altogether, he couldn’t sing or dance or act and even if he _could,_ he was quite frankly _not_ looking for another reason to be an easy target for harassment. No, Ben recalls, he’d always sort of kept to himself, never even opting to try to wedge himself into any sort of space because he’d grown used to there never being enough room for him. But here in Stanley’s basement, surrounded by these six loud, colorful, unpredictable souls, he thinks for the first time ever that there might be room for him here, that there might be pride in being a loser if that’s what they called themselves.

 _It has to be a good thing_ , he thinks, looking around at each of them - Mike, who could walk through a town that spared no expense in letting him know he wasn’t welcome but smile at that town just the same; Bill, whose words catch in his throat and fall out like they’ve been forced through a woodchipper but who still speaks with more clarity than any adult Ben has ever spoken to; Richie, who is loud and, as far as Ben is concerned, absolutely fucking insane, and who so easily could have cracked a joke about Ben’s weight the second they’d met, but didn’t; Eddie, with his fanny pack full of medication and one hand perpetually hovering near his inhaler, but who still goes out and plays with his friends even if it leaves him breathless; Beverly, who smoulders and burns and gives off a sort of warmth that is impossible not to turn into, who made sure Ben was included in that day’s activities even though it would have been effortless to leave him behind; and Stanley, who could be a hot-shot athlete, could dominate Derry Central’s baseball team with his eyes closed, but opts instead for a fun time on a deserted lot with his friends, who opens his house to these outcasts because he knows the circular piece of cloth nestled in his curls makes him an outcast as well, because he knew that Ben was one the moment he came running up to the sandlot, and he’d let him inside, too. _Yeah,_ Ben thinks, taking in the sight of them all around him - his friends - and he smiles again, wider. _Lucky me._

“Hey,” Bill laughs brightly when he sees that Bambino has gotten to his feet to plop himself beside Ben, his saggy face resting on the boy’s knee as he peers up at him, “looks like B-B-Bino has a new friend, too…”

Ben runs his hand gently from Bambino’s head and down his back, trying not to wince when he feels just how boney the dog’s spine is; it is clear from the look of fondness on Stanley’s face that this dog means the world to him, so Ben doesn’t see any reason to highlight that Bambino is a very old boy. Instead, he smiles down at the hound and starts to play with his ears, flipping one of them over his eyes, and Bambino’s tail wags delightedly.

“Aw, well if Bino likes you, you’re solid,” Beverly insists, winking at Ben. Stanley nods in affirmation and beckons to his dog; it takes him a moment to get to his feet, but once he does, Bambino shuffles over to sit in his owner’s lap. Stanley leans down and kisses his head, cradling it in his lap, and the dog lets out a noise that sounds remarkably like a sigh as he settles against Stanley’s legs, his eyes drooping closed as he falls asleep.

“Are we playin’ this game or what, kids?” Stanley asks, still absent-mindedly toying with the dog’s collar as Bambino begins to snore.

“We’re not on the sandlot, Stanley!” Richie reminds before dropping into an uncanny impression of Sarah Williams, and he wags his finger under Stanley’s nose. _“You have no power over me!”_

“This is my house, you imbecile,” Stanley sighs, swatting his hand out of his face. “Shut up before I ask the Goblin King to take _you_ away.” Richie gasps.

“You wouldn’t!”

“Oh, I would - I’d send you off to Jareth with fucking _bells_ on _-_ now zip it! We wanna get this game rolling…” Stanley chimes, and Richie makes a big show of pretending to zip his mouth shut, tucking the imaginary key into the breast pocket of Bill’s shirt.

“How do you play Never Have I Ever?” Ben asks innocently, and Mike pats him on the shoulder gently.

“Basically, Haystack: somebody throws out a hypothetical situation, like ‘never have I ever slept with my clothes on inside out’... If you _have_ done that thing,” and Mike holds up both of his hands then, his fingers splayed out, “you put one of your fingers down.” He does so. “You play with fingers.”

“That's all I’ve ever done!” Richie exclaims, turning towards Stanley with his hand raised in anticipation for a high-five, but Stanley leaves him hanging with a slow shake of his head.

“Beep - beep - Richie,” he grits out. “Alright, who’s going first?”

“I will!” Richie pipes up, and Stanley affectionately rolls his eyes.

“Of course you will.”

Richie looks pointedly at Stanley. “Never have I ever thought about what type of dog I would be.”

Stanley gasps, putting a finger down. “That was told to you in confidence!” Stanley cries, and Richie looks smugly around the circle as Ben and Bill also put their fingers down.

Ben looks off to the side. “Golden retriever.” They all look at Bill, who shrugs.

“Black lab.” The group laughs, all except for Eddie, who is looking suspiciously at Richie with his eyes narrowed.

“You’ve _never_ thought about what breed of dog you’d be, Rich? Not once?” Eddie questions. Richie shakes his head proudly.

“I’ve resisted the urge. I’m good at resisting primal urges; just ask your mom,” he responds, a smile on his face, and it moves to Beverly before Eddie can jump across the circle to smack him.

“Never have I ever…” She pauses, having to think about something she hasn’t done. She knows she’s going to lose this game, badly. “...been in detention!”

Richie sighs, putting his finger down, but he’s smiling a bit smugly. “Not ashamed one bit for yelling _eat my ass, Kaspbrak_ in the hallway.” Eddie flushes crimson at the memory and everyone else lets out mixtures of laughter and groaning.

“O-Okay,” Bill starts. “Never have I ever gotten in a fist fight.” Beverly puts a finger down, and Richie reaches over to slap her knee.

“Bev, you animal!” She smiles wanly.

“It wasn’t a big deal, and it didn’t last long. They, uh… didn’t put up much of a fight,” she says cryptically, and they all decide mutually to leave it be.

“Okay,” Eddie says, thinking over how deeply he should go in this game. Eddie’s done… well, basically nothing; at least in comparison to his friends. He doesn’t know how to choose something he hasn’t done that wouldn’t be depressing to say. Eventually, he says, “Never have I ever gone skinny dipping.”

“We gotta change that, Kaspbrak,” Richie says, winking, as he and Beverly put their fingers down. Eddie huffs, trying desperately to control the blush he knows is spreading across his cheeks.

“Never have I ever made a bowl of cereal only out of the marshmallow pieces,” Stanley says, smugly looking at Richie, and he groans, putting a finger down.

“You are picking on me on _purpose_ , Stanley!” Richie wails and they all roll their eyes.

“Alright, guys, n-no more picking things specifically to g-g-get people out,” Bill declares. “This is supposed to be a get to kn-know you game! Choose things w-we don’t know about each other.”

“Okay, fine,” Richie relents, frowning.

“My turn,” Mike says. “Never have I ever been on a roller coaster.” Everyone cries out in shock.

“What?! Mikey, you’ve never felt the need for speed?” Richie bellows, and they all put a finger down except for Eddie. Mike reaches over and gives Eddie a high-five.

“Nah, not my thing,” Mike replies, lifting up one shoulder.

“Alright, this game is getting _boring_ . Time to spice things up,” Richie says, smirking. “Never have I ever had a crush on a teacher.” Surprisingly to the group, Ben puts his finger down. “Haystack, gettin’ in!” 

“Does it count if it’s the librarian?” Everyone lets out an _aww_ and Richie laughs.

“Definitely, Benny Boy,” he says. Beverly smiles at him.

“I think it’s sweet. Librarians can be nice!” Richie gives her a horrified look.

“Librarians are classified by God Himself as demons, didn’t you know?” Richie says, hand on his chest limply in shock. “He made them to torture us here on earth.”

“Yeah, you’d certainly know, seeing as you’ve been to church _so_ many times, Trashmouth,” Beverly shoots back. Richie nods vehemently.

“I’m an avid bible-thumping church-goer. Praise be the Lord!” He calls out, raising his hands to the sky in a Voice none of them can recognize.

“What is that exactly, Rich? Southern aristocrat?” Beverly asks, and Richie wiggles his fingers at her.

“Whatever you want it to be. Use your imagination.”

“Okay, alright, m-my turn,” Bill cuts in before the Voices escalate. “Never have I ever s-snuck out of the house.”

“Oof, low blow, Denbrough,” Richie says, clutching his hand to his chest. “I’m wounded, I’m hurt, I’m -- _Eddie_?!”

Eddie looks at him and shrugs, having put his finger down. “My mom was at work and you wanted to have dinner, and I didn’t ask her before leaving. I’m going to count that as sneaking out.” Richie reaches out to give him a high-five. “Alright, Eds, it’s your turn.”

Eddie sighs, shifting. “Never have I ever shoplifted from a store.” Beverly immediately puts her finger down. Ben’s eyebrows shoot up. She shrugs, smirks, and says nothing.

“Never have I ever…” Ben starts, and then looks down at his fingers, unable to make eye contact. “Been kissed.”

“Oh, Ben,” Beverly says, putting a hand on his back. “You’ll get kissed. You’re a handsome kid. It’s in the name! Handsome Hanscom!” She giggles and he looks at her, starry-eyed.

“Thanks, Bev,” he responds, and Eddie slowly stuffs his fingers in between his crossed legs, hoping no one will notice that he did not put a finger down, but of course, Richie Tozier comes to the rescue.

“Fingers up, Eddie Spaghetti. Who knows if you’re cheating?” he says, a playful smile on his face, and Eddie sighs hard, putting his fingers back out on his crossed legs, the same number up as before, and Richie’s eyes soften, his smile less sharp, but says nothing. Eddie looks down at Richie’s fingers and sees one less. His skin crawls for reasons he refuses to think too deeply about.

“Okay, this game is stupid,” Richie declares quickly, before anyone can look at Eddie’s hands. “I vote we make ice cream sundaes.” He gets up and walks out of the circle, heading towards the stairs to the rest of Stanley’s house. “We can eat them on the porch! I call the swing!” He calls out from over his shoulder, already ascending the basement stairs.

Everyone looks around at each other. “I… I guess we’re d-done playing,” Bill announces, and gets up as well. Eddie releases his fingers and smiles down at them, glad to have such good friends as these, before following them all up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

Richie Tozier gets bored easily, and when Richie Tozier gets bored, he gets creative. The entire group had staged an intervention with Stanley via telephone on this day, refusing to head to the sandlot as none of them could make it five steps outside without losing half of their body weight in sweat alone, and the lack of distraction is enough to have Richie bouncing off of his living room walls by noon, so _really,_ nobody can blame him. I mean, _sure_ , he supposes there’s less chaotic things that he could’ve resided to do on this scorching July afternoon than bust open the fire hydrant at the end of Eddie Kaspbrak’s street with a wrench he’d found hidden deep in his garage, but really, what’s life without a little chaos?

He thinks about asking for assistance from his friends, but he’s sure Bill would remind him how very illegal it is to open up a fire hydrant (“There’s a pr-pr-pretty steep fine, too, Rich…”) and Stanley would throw an absolute fit over the mess all that water would be bound to cause. Mike is surely in the heart of town by now, exchanging goods reaped from his family farm with the local butcher, so enlisting him for help is out of the question even though Richie is sure that Mike would be able to crack the cap off much faster than he could, owing to the other boy’s strength from years of manual labor. He is also hesitant to ask Mike knowing the very real chance that they could get caught; all of the Losers are painfully aware of the local authorities and their biases, so Richie doesn’t doubt for one second that while he’d probably get off with a slap on the wrist, they’d take Mike for an absolute ride, make an example out of him just because they can, and Richie would never want to put his friend in that position. Ben has taken up a few volunteer hours at the library, and Richie isn’t sure of his schedule yet, or else he would’ve asked him, and Richie wants to _surprise_ Eddie, so he cannot have his usual prank partner by his side for this one.

All of this leads him to Beverly Marsh’s apartment, where he stands pounding on the front door, the rusty wrench clutched in his other hand and swinging at his side. “Open up, Bev! It’s one o’clock and it’s summer, no _way_ you’re still sleeping in there!”

“And what if I _was,_ Tozier?” she challenges, smirking at him once she’s yanked the door open, and she leans her shoulder against the doorway, wincing when it burns her freckled skin, but she does not pull away. She gives him a quick once-over and her eyes latch on to the wrench in his hand immediately. “What the fuck do you have a wrench for?” Richie gives her a smirk of his own and holds it up like a goddamn Academy Award as he starts to speak.

“Why, Miss Marsh, would you do me the honors of joining me in this summer tradition of busting open a fire hydrant?” he wonders. “Specifically a fire hydrant nestled onto the corner of a certain Eddie Kaspbrak’s street?” Beverly lets out a high-pitched _ha!_ before shaking her head in quiet amazement at her friend.

“You’re out of your mind, Rich,” she declares, and then immediately follows up with, “I’m in.”

“Really!” Richie cries, eyes bright and smile wide. “That didn’t take much prodding at all!” Beverly shrugs and unhooks the delicate gold chain from around her neck so that she can lock her apartment door with the key she keeps hanging from it. She does not even bother to fetch a pair of shoes, Richie notes when he looks down to find that she’s barefoot, only looking up again when he feels Beverly grab hold of his hand and start to run. He lets out a wild laugh, almost like a howl, and she joins in, shouting up to the cloudless sky, the pair taking off down the street and kicking up pebbles behind them as they make a mad dash for Center Street.

In retrospect, pulling this off should have been a lot more difficult than it was. Richie supposes having Beverly along for the journey made it that much easier for his nerves to be quelled, which only kept his head clearer, and when they arrive at the fire hydrant and he does a scan of the whole street, shielding his eyes from the sun to prevent a glare from impairing his vision, he finds it empty aside from the two of them.

“Gosh, I don’t think we could have asked for better working conditions,” he pipes up, nudging her side and gesturing for her to take in the deserted sidewalk. “Everyone must be inside, keepin’ out of the heat…”

“Shame,” Beverly sighs dramatically. “Looks like we’ll have to enjoy this all alone…”

“Well, not _completely_ alone,” Richie stresses. “We’re gonna just _have_ to rangle up the others once the deed is done…”

“Oh, of course,” Beverly nods, holding her hand out in a silent request for the wrench which Richie happily hands over. “Ben passes this way on his walk home from the library.”

“So does Mikey!” Richie reminds, leaning over her shoulder as he watches her work the cap off of the side of the hydrant in no time. He can feel his heart already beginning to pound, the sensation a familiar one to him as it’s how he always feels when he gets off on a good prank. He’s usually pulling them with Eddie, has been since they were little kids, but once Beverly joined the group, Richie realized that maybe they weren’t the only ones who thrived off of mischief. He sees Beverly’s eyes glint, the sunlight reflecting in them and making them an even more piercing blue than usual as she turns to give him a thumbs up, which he graciously returns.

“And I’m pretty sure Stan and Bill took Georgie along with them to get some ice cream,” she continues, gritting her teeth as she starts to use the wrench on the top of the hydrant now. “They should be on their way back to Bill’s soon anyway, I can run over and grab them...”

“And I’ll get Eddie!” Richie declares, and Beverly rolls her eyes fondly at the excitement on his face.

“I figured,” she teases, and then she shoots him a pointed look over her shoulder. “Are you just gonna stand there and look pretty, Trashmouth, or are you gonna help me?”

“Well, I _am_ very pretty...”

 _“Tozier!”_ she grunts and Richie chuckles as he too wraps his hands around the wrench. Together, they twist and turn it until Beverly starts to feel it spinning a little easier for them, and then it becomes a race, and both of them are squealing as they run around it like little kids around a sprinkler, and with a slow-building _whoosh,_ a wave of water spews out of the opened side and hits Richie square in the mid-section, soaking him to the bone.

Beverly laughs wildly and Richie coils his arms around her waist, hoisting her off her feet to use her as a shield, and soon both of them are dripping, the cold water feeling incredible on their sunburnt skin. Richie drops to his knees in front of it and tosses his head back into it as if it were a showerhead, letting the water run through his curls until they’re slicked to his forehead, and then he shakes them around like a dog, sending droplets flying in every direction before pushing them back and out of his eyes. Soon, the grass surrounding the fire hydrant is drenched, and Beverly squishes her toes into the damp earth beneath her feet giddily, feeling like a little girl again. She hopscotches her way through a couple of puddles that have started to form until she plops down beside where Richie’s kneeling, crossing her legs beneath her.

“You gonna go get Eds?” she prompts, bumping their shoulders together, and Richie perks up.

“Right!” he cries, and she rolls her eyes at him.

“Oh, _please,_ ” she retorts, “like you somehow forgot? Get lost, Tozier - I’ll go get Billy and the others.” Richie plants a kiss in her wet hair before taking off down Center Street like a bullet, the sound of his wet converse flip-flopping against the pavement making Beverly laugh as she takes off in the opposite direction towards the Denbrough house, leaving the hydrant unattended as it continues to flood the sidewalk.

Richie ducks into the alley near the Kaspbrak home when he spots Sonia Kaspbrak making her way down to where her car is parked in the driveway, her purse slung over her shoulder. Eddie’s mother isn’t fond of him when he _isn’t_ dripping greywater onto her porch steps, so he’d much rather her be out of the house before he treks his muddy footprints up her walkway to fetch her son from inside. He watches as she climbs into the driver’s seat, all the while whispering, _“Please go left, please go left,”_ sure that if she spots the fire hydrant, she’d whisk Eddie off to the emergency room, convinced he’d somehow gotten exposed to toxic waste from the sewer water all the way in his bedroom, and Richie’s surprise would be ruined. But instead, his wish is granted; Sonia Kaspbrak makes a left out of her driveway and Richie watches the car roll down the street before taking the next immediate right, and once it is completely out of his sight, Richie emerges from the shadows and continues on his way.

Once he finds himself on the Kaspbraks’ porch, leaving in his wake a trail of miniature puddles that lead right up the steps to the doormat at his feet, his heart begins to pound. He knocks sharply twice, and then does a rather elaborate beat along the three panes of triangular glass at the center of the large oak door, rapping his knuckles against them in the secret knock that he and Eddie created back when they were in second grade so that Eddie would know it was Richie asking him to come outside. He hears a door open and close - probably Eddie’s bedroom - and then footfalls on the staircase inside as somebody descends onto the first floor. Richie runs a quick hand through his unruly hair just as the door is thrown open.

“Rich, you know my mother won’t let me out when it’s this hot,” Eddie sighs, already shaking his head at the ground, but then he sees the puddles, and his eyes slowly pan upward, from Richie’s soggy shoes to his jeans and _Styx_ tank-top that are both clinging to his body like another layer of skin until his gaze finally settles on Richie’s face. “Please tell me that’s not sweat,” he deadpans, and the already present grin on Richie’s face grows until it nearly consumes him as he tosses his head back to laugh.

“No siree, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie promises with a shake of his head that sends a few drops of water flying to hit Eddie, who sputters and wipes at them immediately. “Take a looksie down the street!” he insists, using the wrench he is still holding to point in the direction of the fire hydrant as it continues to spill water out onto the street. It’s almost completely flooded by now, and Richie and Eddie can see Beverly frolicking through the waves at her feet with Georgie on her back and Bill at her heels. As they watch, Mike rolls up alongside them on his bike, and it takes little more than a _C’mon, Mikey!_ to get him to toss his bike onto a nearby lawn and join them in their game of tag while Stanley stands off to the side, shaking his head while still being unable to conceal the slight smile on his face at the sight.

“I wonder how that happened,” Eddie says, drawing Richie’s eyes back to him, and Richie makes a huge show of folding his arms behind his back to conceal the wrench he knows for damn sure Eddie already saw. He sticks his nose skyward and begins to whistle casually, batting his eyes innocently.

“Why, Eds, I have not the faintest clue what sort of _hooligans_ would do such a thing!” he cries indignantly, clicking his tongue disapprovingly in a way that is so authentic the only explanation for it can be how often Richie has heard it in his life. “I mean could you _imagine?_ ”

“Who helped you?” Eddie asks, ignoring Richie’s game entirely. “There’s no way you pulled this off all by yourself.”

“Excuse you!” Richie shouts, but he’s fighting off a smirk that completely gives him away, and when Eddie gives him a pointed look, he sighs, “If you _must_ know, the lovely Beverly Marsh is quite handy with a wrench…”

“Is she now?” Eddie challenges, a grin of his own blooming on his face, and Richie rocks back and forth on his heels like he always does when he’s impatient. He holds his arm out to Eddie.

“So, what do ya say, Eds?” Richie chimes, and he looks just as he did when they were little - wide-eyed, with a toothy, mischievous grin, and asking Eddie the same thing he’s asking him now. “Wanna go play?”

 

Ben is the last of the Losers to arrive at the corner of Center Street, and when he does, the first thing he notices is not the damn-near wave-pool crashing through the streets or even the crowds of children all running through it, clearly all drawn out of their homes on this hot day by this commotion that Ben knows _somehow_ ,  _someway_ , is Richie Tozier’s doing. He doesn’t even pay attention to _him_ where he can see him chasing after Eddie directly through the stream of water still gushing from the hydrant’s mouth. No, what Ben notices first is Stanley Uris, who is completely bone-dry and looking like he wishes he were just about anywhere but here.

“Hey!” Ben calls from across the street, and Stanley looks up, smiling at him meekly and giving a small wave but making no move to head over to where Ben is standing. So, Ben goes to him, crossing through the now ankle-deep water rolling down the streets. Ben is sure it would’ve been even more flooded if not for the sewers nearby, but it’s pretty impressive nonetheless. “What’s up, buddy?” he asks once he’s standing beside Stanley, and he does not miss the way the other boy inches just slightly away from him, eyeing his dripping clothes wearily.

“Oh, nothing,” Stanley answers. “Just don’t see what’s so fun about splashing around in sewer water…” Ben hums, nodding to himself, and he turns back towards the street to look at their friends. Eddie is now on Richie’s back and bopping him on the head with his fist as the wily boy cackles madly, probably a result of Richie’s ongoing torture, and Ben chuckles as he watches them bicker from afar even though he can’t hear them over everyone’s shouting. “You can go play if you want, Ben,” Stanley suddenly pipes up. “You don’t have to stand here with me… I’m fine.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Ben shrugs. “Unless you don’t want the company - I’ll go on if that’s the case,” he promises, and Stanley looks at him curiously.

“I… No, I don’t mind the company,” he says, and the cautious smile toying at his lips grows slowly. “Not at all… Thanks, Ben.”

“Anytime, pal,” Ben says. “You’re not mad that we didn’t play ball today, are you? Is that why you’re not going in?” he whispers sheepishly, and Stanley’s head snaps up.

“No!” he insists, his tone genuine, and Ben visibly relaxes. “No, I -- you guys were right about it being too hot…”

“Okay,” Ben muses. “So do you just not like the water, or…?”

“I don’t like… messes.” Stanley states simply after a moment’s pause, looking at his hands where they’re twitching at his sides, and Ben says nothing, just waits patiently for the other boy to continue. “I can handle them sometimes -- it’s not so bad on the sandlot for some reason, and I’m usually fine down at the Quarry, but it’s honestly hit or miss. This time, I just…” He shakes his head and Ben nods sympathetically.

“I got ya, buddy,” he assures. “No worries.” Stanley grins and bumps Ben’s shoulder lightly with his fist, a silent thank you, just as Georgie Denbrough comes running up to them.

“Whoa, pal!” Stanley shouts. “I don’t think you’re gonna be dry for months! Look at you!” Georgie giggles and then he’s jumping up and down on the balls of his feet.

“Stanny! I brought my paper sailboats that Billy made for me, they’re in my backpack!” he points to where he’d left the bag his mother had sent him and Bill with, filled nearly to the brim with snacks and water bottles in case they got dehydrated during the day. At the top of the pile inside, Stanley can see two origami boats made from manila paper perched there. “Can you get them so I don’t get the food all wet?”

“Sure, little man,” Stanley smiles, and he runs off to fetch the paper-boats for the boy, handing them over happily. “You and Billy gonna race ‘em down the street?” Georgie nods excitedly, and then he seems to notice Ben standing there just as his older brother comes to join them.

“Who are you?” he asks bluntly, in a manner only a child is capable of, and Bill grabs a hold of his little brother’s shoulders quickly.

“Georgie, don’t be rude,” Bill scolds in a gentle whisper, and Ben blinks. He’s never heard Bill speak without stuttering before. “This is our new friend, Ben Hanscom.”

“Hiyah, Ben Hanscom!” the little boy waves. “I’m Georgie Denbrough, Billy’s bestest brother!”

“He’s my o-only brother,” Bill informs Ben as he pats the kid’s head affectionately, and Ben smiles down at Georgie.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet Billy’s bestest brother,” he insists, sticking his hand out, and Georgie giggles as children always do when an adult initiates a handshake with them. It’s just about the silliest thing that Georgie could imagine, but he wraps his fingers around Ben’s and they shake like his and Billy’s dad does with the guys from his work before turning back to his big brother to tug on the hem of his damp T-shirt.

“Billy, can we race boats now?” he whines, and Bill yawns.

“Aw, buddy - I don’t know if I could run after ‘em right now,” he admits. “I’m pooped from how hot it is today…” Georgie might have giggled at his brother’s choice of words in any other situation, but instead, his face falls.

“But Billy -- !”

“Hey, Georgie,” Ben suddenly speaks up. “How about I race those boats with you, and Billy and Stan can stand at the finish line and see who wins?” he prompts, and Georgie’s eyes widen.

“That sounds _so_ fun! Can we do that, Billy?” he cries, and Bill nods immediately.

“Sure can, buddy,” he insists, and then he looks back up to smile at Ben. “You two head on down to the end of the street, Stanny and I will stay right here.”

“Okay! C’mon, Benny!” Georgie orders, taking a hold of Ben’s hand and dragging him down the street. “You know, Billy makes these paper sailboats for me all the time, and he uses this special wax on ‘em so they don’t get soggy from the water, and…”

“That kid could talk the green off a leaf,” Stanley says, his tone loving as he watches Georgie and Ben walk hand-in-hand towards the stop sign sitting on the opposite end of the street. Bill chuckles, nodding, but then he frowns a bit when he notices how rigidly his friend is standing beside him.

“Y-You okay, Stanley?” he whispers, though there isn’t a soul close enough to hear them. “I c-can walk you home if you need to g-g-get outta here… None of us w-would blame you for doing what you need to do, you kn-know that…”

“Yeah, I know,” Stanley says quietly, putting his hands into his pockets. “I’ll stay for the boat race, but then I think I’m gonna clear out… Don’t let Rich feel bad about that, either… S’not his fault.” Bill nods and goes to place his hand on Stanley’s shoulder, but stops himself at the last second when he remembers he’s still sopping wet. Instead, he just smiles at his friend, and Stanley smiles back, already feeling more at ease. Bill Denbrough is like that, Stanley remembers. He radiates a sort of calm that is impossible not to feed off of when he’s near you, and this is why Stanley is glad that his best pal is never too far from his side. The pair of them have been inseparable since kindergarten, much like Richie and Eddie, and Stanley is thankful every day to know someone like Bill and to be able to call him a friend.

 _“Stanny! Billy! Are you ready?”_ they hear Georgie shout, his hands cupped around his mouth, and Bill tosses a thumbs up into the air which Ben returns. Georgie kneels down and sets his paper-boat on the waterline, fingers still clutching it so that it cannot float away before he wants it to, and once Ben is in position beside him, the little boy calls, _“Okay! 3… 2… 1… GO!”_

 

Georgie isn’t even sad that Ben’s sailboat won the race once the older boy offers to share some of the candy he’d bought earlier that day with him. It’s almost dark now and they can see a few fireflies starting to fly around their heads as they all sit in a dry patch of grass, far away from the fire hydrant that Beverly and Richie eventually locked up again. (“I’m surprised no one called the cops!” “I’m not, Bevs! It was a million degrees today! We did the community _a service!_ ”). Everyone is tired, sitting in a comfortable silence - that is, until Richie sees Ben offer some chocolate to the little boy, who accepts it happily, and Richie, never being one to shy away from causing a scene, does exactly that.

“Oh, nice,” he comments dryly from where he’s lying between Bill and Eddie, his head resting on the latter’s knee while his legs are plopped into Bill’s lap. Richie is about as tactile as they come, and his friends have grown very aware of the fact that Richie’s need for physicality is so ingrained into him that sometimes they wonder if he wouldn’t drop dead were he to go without physical contact for more than five minutes. “ _Bribe_ the kid… I never thought you could stoop so low, Haystack…” Ben flips Richie off when he’s sure Georgie is distracted by Mike, who is currently teaching the little boy to whistle, and Richie all but catapults himself into a sitting position, knocking his head into Eddie’s chin and nearly kicking Bill in the stomach. “Bill! Did you see that! You really want such a bad influence around your baby brother!”

“Like you aren’t the worst one of all,” Stanley deadpans, and the whole group erupts with laughter in a way that even Richie has to crack a smile at. Georgie laughs too, though he isn’t entirely sure what he’s laughing about, and then he turns to ask Ben if he can have the last piece of candy. Ben is happy to give it away, ruffling the little boy’s hair, and Georgie turns quickly towards his brother, a ring of chocolate around his smiling lips.

“I like Benny! You pick good friends, Billy!” he states simply, and Ben’s heart thuds wildly in his chest.

“You’re right, sport. I sure do…” Bill agrees, smiling across the circle at Ben, who ducks his head to blush down at his lap, and Beverly nudges his shoulder affectionately before resting her head against it, her curls half-dry and sticking up haphazardly at all angles.

“Does that offer for an escort home still stand, Denbrough?” Stanley wonders, and Bill nods.

“S-Sure does,” he swears. “Only we should pr-probably drop Georgie off first. It’s getting l-late and our house is cl-cl-closer…” Stanley nods and gets to his feet as Bill beckons to the little boy when he does not move from where he’s still wedged between Ben and Mike. “C’mon, pal… Time to go home.”

“Aw, but Billy,” Georgie frowns, but falls silent when Bill gives him a soft but stern look.

“There’s always tomorrow, pal,” Stanley reminds. “C’mon, you gotta rest up if you’re gonna play baseball with us tomorrow, right?” Georgie perks up in an instant at the invite, and he leaps to his feet after tossing his arms around Ben, giving his newest friend a tight squeeze before falling into place between his brother and Stanley.

“I should get going, too,” Eddie sighs. “Before my mom sends out a search party.” The entire circle frowns at that as Eddie gets to his feet, Richie following suit. “See you guys tomorrow?” he asks, and their smiles are restored.

“Cute you still ask us that every day, Kaspbrak,” Beverly muses, blowing him a kiss from where she’s now decided to sprawl out in the grass, tossing her arms out on either side of her so that she can twist her fingers into the dirt and grass around her. “Of course we’ll see you tomorrow…” Eddie grins down at her, tucking her kiss into the back pocket of his jeans, and she aims a lighthearted kick at his leg that he dodges with a squeal before waving to the rest of them and heading back towards his house, Richie close behind him.

“You know, I still can’t believe you did this,” Eddie whispers, and Richie does not need to ask him what he’s talking about. He gestures to the last of their friends where some of them are still sitting in the grass together, exhausted but still full of joy after their day in the sun.

“You know I live to serve the public, Spaghetti Man!” Richie insists. “I needed a good prank, and opportunity came a-knockin’...”

“Let me rephrase,” Eddie says, so seriously that Richie actually shuts up. “I can’t believe you did this one without _me,_ ” he corrects, and if Richie didn’t know any better, he’d think Eddie actually looked a little bit sad. “You always do this kinda stuff with me…”

“Aw, Eddie my love!” Richie gasps in his 40’s starlet Voice, pulling out all of Trashmouth’s stops to be sure that he doesn’t let his mind run away with him on this one, that he doesn’t put ideas into his own head about what Eddie being hurt over him choosing to pull a prank with only Beverly could actually mean. “There’s enough of Richie Tozier to go around! You can’t be _selfish,_ ” he teases, reaching over to pinch Eddie’s cheek once they arrive on his porch once again, and when Eddie swats his hand away sharply in a way that doesn’t remotely match the softness deep in his eyes, Richie relaxes. “Don’t you worry, I’ve got a lifetime of tricks up my sleeve!”

 

* * *

 

“Okay,” Richie whispers to Eddie where he’s crouched in Richards Alley at the end of Center Street, “just act natural.”

“Wow, looks real natural to be fucking hunched over like Quasimodo, Rich,” Eddie scoffs absently, crossing his arms and peeking out of the alley, on the lookout for Beverly.

“Hey!” Richie hisses. “Quasimodo is a sweet and gentle soul and you will not disrespect him like this!”

“Rich, he has a hunchback. That’s just a fact and literally all I mentioned about him - nothing about his personality. I happen to agree with you - you know I do, we’ve discussed this before. Now, help me look for Bev!” He grabs the back of the collar of Richie’s t-shirt and hoists him up, keeping his hand there to get leverage to peek around him. “When did you say she would get here again?”

“I dunno, we didn’t set an exact time,” Richie shrugs.

“Richie! God, you’re both so bad at organizing pranks; this is why you need me…” he sighs, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“Well, she’s probably gotta go back to her apartment and get the stuff. Unless she just carries illegal fireworks around with her all day -- ” Eddie clamps a hand over Richie’s mouth, looking around wildly to make sure nobody heard them. The sidewalk is blessedly quiet in front of them where Keene’s Pharmacy is caddy-cornered. Eddie lets out a relieved sigh, dropping his hand before he slaps Richie’s chest with the back of his wrist.

“Stop trying to blow our cover, you jagweed!” Eddie groans. “God, doing this in a literal fucking alley is so unnecessarily stressful. We’re not criminals. Why couldn’t Beverly just give them to us in your house? Or _anywhere else_?”

“ _Because_ , Eds,” Richie stresses, stretching out each word dramatically, “this is way more fun!”

“Beg to motherfucking differ, dipshit!” Eddie slaps the back of his head for having a bad idea and simply because he can - he and Richie both know he’d never actually hurt him, no matter how often he insists that he wants to.

“Howdy, fellas,” Beverly says breezily as she enters the alley. Eddie’s whole body sags in relief.

“Hi, Bev,” Richie says just as Eddie sighs out, _“Finally.”_

“Well,” Beverly laughs. “Somebody’s crabby.”

“Sorry,” Eddie grimaces. “Just that this idiot didn’t set a time with you for when to meet in this stupid alley and -- ”

“Hey. Don’t knock the magical properties of Richards Alley,” Beverly says. Richie gives her a high-five and then freezes in the air.

“Wait. This is called _Richards Alley_?”

“Richards. Not possessive. Like multiple Richards,” Eddie explains, pointing to the green sign screwed into the brick of Keene’s.

“Oh, grammar would not stop Richie from claiming this alley as his own and you know it,” Beverly grins as Richie nods jerkily.

“My main squeeze Beverly is absolutely correct on that one,” Richie declares, hooking his arm around her neck and pulling her into his side. Beverly has always been on the tall side - taller than Eddie since the day they met, much to his dismay and Richie’s delight - and Richie is steadily growing taller as puberty continues to hit him like a Mack truck, so at this point, he and Beverly are the exact same height. They look like a pair of twins with identical manic grins and bodies wrapped around each other. That’s the only thought keeping Eddie from getting jealous - that they look more like siblings than they do lovers.

“Alright, get off, you big buffoon,” Beverly laughs, shoving Richie off of her and sending him barrelling into one of the brick walls enclosing them in the alley. He simply laughs and straightens back up. “I gotta get your shit.”

“Please do!” Richie claps excitedly. Beverly drops her backpack to the ground carefully and pulls out several sticks of fireworks and hands them over.

“Be careful,” she says, looking directly at Richie as she hands them off to Eddie.

“I am always careful,” Richie sniffs. “I am the king of careful.”

“Yeah, okay,” Eddie snorts. He shakes his head at the fireworks in his hands. “Where did you even _get_ these, Beverly? Do you have a fucking _arms dealer_ or something?”

“If I told you, then I’d have to kill you…” she deadpans, staring Eddie right in the eyes. They both burst out laughing. “Nah, I’ve just got friends in high places.”

“No more explanation than that?” Richie chuckles.

“Nope. Can’t have you swooping in on my arms dealer friends, Rich. Where would I be without you calling me up at 10:45 P.M. demanding to know where you can purchase fireworks? I like to feel needed.”

“This is _important_ , Beverly,” Richie grits through his teeth. “I gotta make it up to my Spaghetti for not including him in our last heist!”

“I’m not your anything, and if I was, and I certainly wouldn’t be your _Spaghetti,_ ” Eddie grimaces, disgusted. Richie rounds on him, delighted, but Eddie continues before he can get a word in edgewise. “Thank you for this, Beverly. We hope you enjoy Summer Prank #5.”

“Different than Mambo #5, but not by much,” Richie insists seriously with a grin on his face caused by Eddie’s, frankly, damning attempted insult that Beverly finds absolutely precious.

“Of course,” she nods with the same serious tone in her voice, but they’re all smiling. “Okay, I gotta get back home. See you guys at the sandlot tonight, yeah?”

“You know it. These puppies aren’t gonna light themselves,” Richie smirks, bouncing on his heels excitedly.

Beverly is tasked with calling everyone in The Losers’ Club while Richie and Eddie set up at the sandlot. Well, while Eddie sets up and Richie attempts to keep watch without getting bored. It goes about as well as expected, and he distracts Eddie so thoroughly that it takes him three times as long to get the fireworks ready for ignition, so when Beverly shows up at the designated time, he’s still attempting to organize them.

“Eddie! It’s not rocket science!” Beverly scolds as she hurries over to him, like glow of the twilight sky illuminating her hair. Eddie thinks she looks ethereal, like a fairy or an elven princess of some kind. He stares for just a little too long, enthralled with the colors on her skin the way a painter looks at a beautiful landscape - until she snaps in his face and snaps him out of his reverie. “The guys are gonna be here any minute!”

“Okay, it is _literal_ rocket science,” Richie calls from his post perched on the fence. Eddie points at him angrily.

“I thought you got your speaking privileges revoked until I was finished, Tozier!”

“Sorry, Spaghetti darling, I can’t resist a good pun!” he cackles, but he’s quiet after that as Eddie continues setting up, and he’s is grateful that he can face the ground so neither Beverly or Richie can see the deep blush staining his cheeks. He instructs Beverly how to safely get them ready and her help makes the work go twice as fast, so by the time the rest of the group shows up, the three of them are waiting patiently together, all smirking at the excitement on their friends’ faces when they notice the fireworks.

“Well, well, well…” Stanley hums, smile elastic in a way it usually isn’t. “What do we have here?”

“Trouble,” Richie grins wickedly.

“Can’t wait,” Stanley responds, his wooden tone betraying the grin on his own face.

“Wow, this is extravagant!” Ben giggles, examining the setup. “Who got the fireworks?”

“A lady never tells.” Beverly winks at him swiftly and Ben feels a bit weak at the knees.

“Well, damn, are you fuckers ready for the night of your lives?” Richie heckles grinning wildly. Everyone cheers and Richie whips out his zippo, tossing it to Eddie.

“What, me?” Eddie asks, eyes wide and imploring as he stares at Richie.

“Yeah, you. S’your idea.”

“Not exactly true - you called me up and said ‘What are we doing for Fourth of July?’ and I said ‘Hopefully something stupid.’”

“Yes, Eds, and from that exchange, an idea was born!” Richie cries, gesturing for Eddie to light the fireworks. He grins at Richie, eyes glinting excitedly, and he cries out for everybody to get on the other side of the lot. They all run to the opposite fence except Eddie and Richie, and they all count down from five together. At one, Eddie lights the long fuseline and then quickly grabs Richie’s hand and takes off running before the fireworks explode.

“Plug your ears!” Eddie yells. They all do and just as Eddie and Richie turn around, the first light shoots up into the sky and explodes into a kaleidoscope of color that has them all hollering and cheering.

“Fuck!” Richie laughs, draping himself over Eddie’s back as he watches the second one that is connected to the light of the first begin to set aflame. “This is so fucking cool!”

“I know!” Eddie cries. And maybe it’s out of instinct, maybe it’s out of comfortability, maybe it’s simply because he is just _so fucking happy_ , but Eddie leans back into Richie’s chest and moulds their bodies together as they watch the show. Richie grins down at him and sighs happily just as the second one explodes like a gunshot in the air and all their friends cheer. Eddie can’t hear him, can’t see him, doesn’t know it’s even happened, but Richie presses a lightning fast kiss into his hair while he’s bouncing up and down. He thinks it’s okay to steal something he knows he’s not allowed to have tonight - after all, they’re breaking all of the rules here in this dirt lot they’ve all come to know like their own homes.

Beverly knocks into their sides and they turn to see her grinning.

“Pretty fucking sick prank, guys.” They nod and look over at all their friends. Mike had brought his camera, but he isn’t taking pictures of the light show and is instead trying to capture the glee on his friends’ faces when the sky lights up. He prefers the sight of his friends’ happiness through a viewfinder and knowing he’ll have these photos forever anyway. Stanley’s grin is now full-out manic as he stares at the sky. His back is pressed against the fence so he can be as far away from the fireworks as possible, but he wouldn’t dare be any further away from his friends than strictly necessary right now. Bill and Ben are knocking into each other excitedly, wrapped around each other as well as they watch the show, pointing out their favorite colors and patterns in the lights. Eddie and Richie look back and Beverly and they all share a nod.

“Best prank ever,” Richie says decidedly. Their smiles grow impossibly bigger.

“Best prank ever,” Eddie and Beverly respond in unison.

 

* * *

 

The moment the others learn that the new kid has a fucking _treehouse_ in his backyard, Ben’s quickly becomes one of the more preferred hang-out spots. Stanley’s basement still holds first place in all of their hearts, and the diner that sits in the center of Derry is always good for late-night snacks, but the cozy little 8x8 space nestled into the large, lonely tree at the back-end of Josie Hanscom’s yard certainly has its perks - one of them being that Ben has full authority over who he lets inside.

“Sorry, maximum occupancy,” Beverly says casually, examining her chipped nail polish.

“Says who! You’re not the boss of the treehouse!” Richie cries in anguish.

“Mmm, I say she gets an honorary boss badge,” Ben muses.

“C’mon, Haystack, this is just cruel!” Richie shrieks from the final rung of the ladder that leads up to the treehouse where the rest of his friends are crowded, heads squished into the open doorway to peer down at him.

“You _did_ run away the slowest when we took off on the Fourth of July, Richie...” Eddie hums, smiling conspiratorially. Richie begins banging on the side of the wooden structure with his fist and whining loudly.

“Let me in! Let me in! Let me in! Let me -- ”

“Alright, alright - cool your jets, Tozier, come on in. But on one condition,” Ben warns, pointing a finger at the other boy as he inches further up the ladder until he can grab a hold of the treehouse’s base and hoist himself inside. “No complaints about my music.”

Once he’s inside, Richie makes a big to-do about locking his mouth with an imaginary key and tucking it into Ben’s shirt pocket, and then he plops onto the beanbag chair that Eddie is already sitting in, jostling the other boy so much he nearly topples off. Eddie grumbles under his breath about personal bubbles, and Richie immediately readjusts himself, giving the other boy space. Beverly smiles watching them being so blissfully unaware of how in-sync they are.

“Sweet crib, Haystack,” Richie smiles, and Stanley instantly groans.

“You locked your mouth not even two seconds ago and you’re already talking,” he complains, utter amazement in his tone as he shakes his head at the treehouse ceiling. The space is small, but none of them really feel cramped inside of it; they’re used to being in close proximity to one another, and this moment is no different.

“You have a l-lot of books up here, huh, Ben?” Bill asks, taking in the stack of books tucked into the far corner, some lying open, dogeared. Ben looks over at him and smiles from where he has gotten up to put some music on, reaching for one of the records that he keeps beside the lone lamp in the treehouse and nearly tripping over the extension cord as he does so. The noise he makes as he catches himself is the only reason Richie looks up, catching sight of the record he’s holding, and all bets are off.

“Oh, my God. _No --_ ”

“Richie, you explicitly agreed,” Ben reminds him, but Richie is not at all listening.

“Benjamin, no! I’m staging an intervention, right here, right now -- ” Richie insists, ignoring the _beep beeps_ that are coming at him from all sides. “You need serious help, and _as your friend,_ it is my job to give it to you.”

“I don’t want any help that you could possibly have to offer me,” Ben promises with a shake of his head, and Mike snorts loudly, raising his hand silently for a high-five that Ben jumps on immediately. He whirls around to put the New Kids On the Block record on and Richie springs to his feet, grabbing his wrists, eyes pleading.

“Ben, _please_ ,” he begs, fishing a mixtape out of the back pocket of his jeans and holding it out for Ben to take, “I swear, it’ll rock your little world, buddy…”

“Tozier, I only have one rule in this treehouse and it’s that you respect my music choices.”

“But I made this one especially for you!” Richie cries. “See?” He points to the label on the mixtape that reads _Richie’s Welcome Wagon Extravaganza_ and the comeback that had been burning at the tip of Ben’s tongue fizzles out instantly when he sees it. He blinks, reaching to take the tape from Richie quietly and being especially careful with it, like he is afraid it might crumble in his hands if he isn’t gentle with it. Richie watches Ben carefully as he stares at the tape, waiting for some sort of response, and when Ben clears his throat loudly, eyes still trained downward for fear of anyone noticing how glossy they’ve become, Richie smiles softly.

“Thanks, Richie,” Ben whispers.

“Oh, it’s not a big deal,” Richie shrugs, scuffing the toe of his shoe into the floor beneath him, but Ben looks up quickly with a shake of his head. “I make a lot of mixtapes, it was nothing.”

“No. No. Not nothing,” he refutes, insistent, and Richie’s face splits wide with a blinding grin.

“So, you’ll play it?” he asks, and Ben chuckles.

“Yeah, Tozier - I’ll play it…” Ben nods, and he plops the mixtape into the boombox that is sitting beside his books. A jaunty, happy tune comes on through the speakers and Richie suddenly feels anxious, like his song choices are under a microscope in front of the six people whose opinions he cares about most. He looks down in his lap and pulls out his pack of Parliaments from his pocket before Eddie puts his hand on them sharply.

“In a house made of wood? Are you crazy?” Eddie whispers harshly before the lyrics come through.

 _This is stranger than I thought_  
_Six different ways inside my heart_  
_And everyone I'll keep tonight_  
_Six different ways go deep inside_  
_I'll tell them anything at all  
I know I'll give them more and more_

Richie can’t look up, can’t bear to see his friends potentially mocking expressions, but he feels Eddie sway next to him and Mike is bopping in front of him, so he feels he has enough courage to take a peek at the face he trusts the most: Bill’s. He glances up to see Bill next to Ben; his eyes are closed and he’s smiling, mouthing along with the lyrics like Richie knows he does whenever he listens to music to practice forming words. Richie smiles faintly and looks to Beverly who is singing along quietly, knowing most of The Cure’s discography already. She makes eye contact with him and smiles widely, pointing at him and singing the next lyrics directly at him, making Richie smile and sing along.

 _It was never quite like this before  
_ _Not one of you is the same_

Richie, smiling in earnest now, finally looks to Ben. The boy has Stanley’s hands in his and is dancing with him the best he can while sitting down, eyes alight and alive. Richie laughs brightly at the sight and they look to him and smile back.

“It’s not _Step By Step,_ but not bad, Tozier,” Ben comments, and Richie shakes his head as the whole group of them begin to laugh raucously, but the two boys are smiling still.

“You’re lost to us, Benjamin - I suppose there’s just no saving you,” Richie sighs dramatically.

“No, I suppose there isn’t…” Ben agrees with a shrug of his own, and Richie winks at him - a truce. “It was a valiant effort, though, I must say…” He adds as Richie takes a bow to half-hearted applause from their friends, and Ben grins at the sight as the song fades out. It really was a good song, and it isn’t that Ben doesn’t like what’s on his mixtape, it’s just that he really _loves_ fucking with Richie Tozier.

“Well, if you like _Step By Step,_ I think you’ll love what’s comin’ up next!” Richie crows, perking up as the song changes over to Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. Everyone except Ben groans.

“Richie, _why_?” Beverly moans loudly, draping herself over Bill in anguish.

“I made it for _Ben_! I didn’t know you clowns would be listening in!” But the slight tinge to his cheeks disappears when he notices that Ben is bopping happily to the beat.

“This is neat, Rich!” he smiles. Richie smiles back and salutes him.

“Glad to be of service to broadening your musical horizons, Haystack.”

Bill pulls out the granola bars he brought in his backpack for everybody and passes them out. Richie makes a face when he gets his.

“Anybody got chocolate chip to trade for oatmeal raisin?” Eddie wordlessly switches their bars and Richie beams at him before giving him a smacking kiss on the cheek.

“Gross…” Eddie mumbles, wiping his cheek off and trying to bite down his smile.

“Hey, Mikey Mike, when are you -- ”

“No,” Mike says flatly. “Richie, you’re not giving me a nickname after Mark Wahlberg. I refuse.”

“Aw, Mikey, be reasonable! You’re the frontman! Who’s gonna be your Funky Bunch? Hmm…” He looks around the at the group, stroking his chin, and everyone looks away, trying not to be noticed except Beverly who flatens him with one disinterested stare.

“A-ha! I got it! Beverly the Booty Inspector!”

_“What.”_

“Well, would you prefer I exclusively call you Hector from now on, Beverly?” Richie asks almost impatiently. He continues on before she can even answer. “Didn’t think so. Now, Bill is obviously Billie Dee. For Scottie Gee.”

“Obviously?” Bill laughs.

“Yes, Billie, obviously. Now, DJ-T will be played by Eddie, Mr. DJ-K.”

“What? Why not DJ-E? It rhymes,” Eddie asks, frowning seriously, taking this much more to heart than the group thinks is at all appropriate.

“Because that sounds _fucking stupid._ ”

“Okay, sure, Rich - because none of this is fucking stupid already, alright,” Eddie grumbles around a choked laugh.

“Now, Ashley Ace will be more difficult. I vote Stanley -- ”

“Oh, no.”

“ -- be Stanny Spades.”

“What! How does that make sense!” Stanley asks accusatorially.

“Playing cards! Obviously! There we have it, folks, the Funky Bunch cover band the world didn’t know it needed.”

“Or deserved to be thrust upon it…” Eddie mumbles.

They munch on their snacks for a little bit, Beverly pulling out a family size bag of Lays (Richie sings _We Are Family_ over top of the music already playing and they demand he stop singing immediately) and putting it in the middle of the small house. Bill is watching Ben consideringly for a moment before he finally asks what he knows they’ve all been wondering.

“Hey, Ben?” Ben hums, turning to him. “Why did you move to Derry?”

They all quiet and look to Ben who has suddenly clammed up. He didn’t invite them inside his house for a reason - because he lives with his aunt and younger cousin. He was afraid of prying questions that he wasn’t sure he was ready so answer, but as he looks around the group of them, all of their expressions uncritical, open and not demanding anything Ben doesn’t want to share, he knows he can tell them what nobody else in Derry aside from the two people inside the house on this property know.

“Um… My mom passed away.” Silence. And then, Richie whispers what they’re all thinking.

 _“Shit.”_ It’s so him, so full of emotion but so simple and crass at the same time, that Ben feels wholeheartedly safe as he nods and continues.

“Car accident. I wasn’t with her. It was… awful. It was fucking awful. I mean, my dad, he passed away too when I was younger - he was a soldier. Died in battle. They all tell me it was an honorable death, so I felt… better about it for some reason. I never really knew him - he was often away on tours. He wasn’t supposed to die; he wasn’t in a military zone at the time. But it happened regardless. But after that, it was just me and my mom and I… relied on her. A lot. It’s really fucking tough, knowing I...” He trails off, unable to finish.

“I’m sure it is, Ben,” Beverly says soothingly, placing a tender hand on his knee. He smiles up at her, watery and unsure of how to even keep going. He always had his mom. And now, he just… doesn’t. Here one moment, gone the next.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye to either of them. That’s the worst part, I think.” Mike nods.

“I absolutely know how you feel, man,” he says quietly, voice no more than a low rumble. “Losing my parents so… violently… in that fire… it was hard on me, too - the fact that I wasn’t able to ever say goodbye.”

They make eye contact, and there’s a deep-rooted connection between the two of them that Ben didn’t know was there before. “I’m afraid to start the new school year without her.”

“Really?” Eddie asks. “Why’s that?”

“We had these rituals on the first day of school… It’s stupid…”

“It’s not st-stupid,” Bill insists, sounding so certain that the insecurity Ben was previously feeling is immediately washed away. “What did you guys d-d-do?”

“She cooked me a nice breakfast on the first day… My mom was an amazing baker - I still have her pie crust recipe, actually. We’d also go shopping for clothes and school supplies the weekend before in whatever city was closest…” The group looks confused, and Ben explains. “I was kind of an army brat for a while, and we moved around a lot. This whole new kid thing, it isn’t new to me.”

“Well, _new kid_ ,” Beverly smiles sweetly, tipping her head towards him, “we can get one of those rituals done with us… If you wanted.”

“What do you mean?” he asks breathlessly.

“We can take you shopping for school supplies in Bangor! None of us ever go shopping before school - we probably should, we’re always borrowing shit from other people,” Beverly laughs.

“You mean it?” Ben asks, so serious that Beverly’s heart stutters in her chest. “Because I don’t think I could take it if you’re just fucking with me.”

“Absolutely not fucking with you, Hanscom, honest,” Richie promises.

“Yeah,” Stanley says, voice hoarse with unshed tears. He clears his throat. He’s been quiet throughout this whole conversation, trying to keep from crying. Stanley doesn’t often show it, but his friends are absolutely the best part of his life, and hearing them hurt splinters his heart in half. “We’d never do that to you, Ben. We like you. We want you around - for good.”

“Wow, you -- Really?” Ben whispers. They all nod, smiling softly at him. “And you wanna come _book shopping with me?_ That’s so boring.”

Beverly shrugs. “We can make any activity fun if we’re all together.”

Ben beams a her and wipes at his own face, laughing softly. “Cool.”

“Yeah,” Eddie smiles. “Really cool.” There’s a bit of silence that Richie fills with turning the music back up that Mike had turned down as soon as their conversation started. Bill turns to Ben.

“Hey, Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“What was your mom’s n-n-name?” Bill asks softly, despite the fact that everyone is straining to listen. Whenever Bill Denbrough talks, The Losers’ Club listens.

“Arlene,” Ben smiles, nodding gently. “Her name was Arlene.”

Bill smiles and reaches for the bag of chips, popping one in his mouth. He offers the bag to Ben and he looks at it warily, but accepts a handful anyway.

“Cool.”

 

* * *

 

Stanley thought that he would feel better once he returned to his own house, but when he finds himself in his basement for the first time in two weeks, he cannot help but begin to wonder if he’ll ever really feel at home anywhere. He isn’t even inside his house five minutes before the telephone begins to ring, and when Stanley holds the phone up to his ear and hears the first friendly voice that he’s heard in the past fourteen days, he almost bursts into tears.

“Stan the Man!” Mike cheers, and Stanley can practically hear the smile on his friend’s face. “How was camp?” Stanley sucks in a quiet, shaky breath before replying in the only way he can think of that won’t raise any concern.

“It was fine,” Stanley insists meekly, and Mike does not press him over the phone though it’s very clear to the other boy that whatever the camp might have been, it was fairly obvious that it was most definitely _not_ fine.

“Good to hear, buddy,” Mike responds gently. “Say - you feel like seein’ our ugly mugs today or do you want a day to settle back in at home? How’re you feelin’, man?” Stanley smiles at the concern in Mike’s voice that despite the boy’s efforts, he has always been terrible at concealing; it is very like Mike to be aware of the fact that sometimes people need time alone, and Stanley feels a surge of affection for his friend.

“I’m okay, honest,” Stanley says, and Mike hums. “And, uh -- yeah, I’d love to see you guys. You can come over…” Mike whoops on the other end of the call.

“Saddle up, kids - Stanley Uris is back and he actually missed us!” Stanley can hear the rest of his friends hollering in the background, and then what sounds like a mild scuffle, and the next voice he hears coming through the telephone is Richie’s.

“Staniel, how was Jewish camp? Was it as horrible as it sounds?”

 _“Beep beep, Richie!”_ a chorus of voices shouts and Stanley is actually crying now, tears of joy rolling down his cheeks as he laughs, and he can tell Richie is thriving on the sound from how he carries on.

“What!” the boy shouts defensively. “Every summer camp is horrible! You can’t tell me Stanley had a better time reading The _Torah_ for two weeks than he does spending time with us!”

“He’s got you there, fellas,” Stanley croaks into the phone, and Beverly is the one to respond this time.

“Jeez, Uris - you go AWOL for two weeks and forget that we never tell Richie he’s right, especially when he’s _actually_ right?” He can picture her signature smirk on her freckled face, and he wishes they were all already here, but at the same time, he can’t bring himself to hang up the phone, afraid of being alone with his thoughts for even a moment.

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” he replies. “My sincerest apologies, Beverly.”

“Ooh, you’re forgiven, cutie,” Beverly insists. “You’re lucky I missed you so much - do you know how terrible the baseball games went while you were away?”

 _“Hey!”_ Stanley hears Eddie squeak from the background. “I did the best I could as captain!”

“Aw, Eddie, you got forced into being my stand-in?” Stanley chuckles, envisioning how the games might have gone in his absence. Eddie must have taken the phone out of Beverly’s hand then, because his voice comes through clear as day.

“Yes, I did! I didn’t ask for the position, it was forced upon me, and I tried my best, honest,” Eddie defends.

“I believe you, buddy,” Stanley says. “You were their only hope - God knows they couldn’t have made Richie captain...”

 _“I heard that, Stanley!”_ Richie shrieks into the phone. “Just because we missed you terribly doesn’t mean you can sass me over the phone now! I’ll accept in-person sassing only, so you’ll just have to reign it in ‘till we come over.”

“W-We’ll never make it over there unless you l-losers hang up the phone,” Stanley hears Bill’s soft, familiar drawl and instantly feels safe, a warmth spreading throughout his entire body. “Stan?”

“Hi, Bill,” Stanley breathes, unable to keep the smile out of his voice. “I missed you.”

“I m-missed you, too, buddy,” Bill answers back. “Listen, we’re gonna h-head over to you now, okay?”

“Okay…” Stanley nods, but doesn’t even remotely move to hang up the telephone.

“That means we gotta hang up, Uris!” Ben’s chuckle reaches Stanley’s ears like he had spoken underwater, and Stanley blinks, snapping out of his stupor for a moment.

“Oh… Oh, right… Okay. I’ll -- I’ll see you all soon?” He asks this in a voice like he isn’t quite sure they’re actually coming.

“Y-Yeah, buddy,” Bill promises, and Stanley breathes again. “We’re on our way.”

Bill hangs up the Hanlon’s telephone and Stanley hears the tell-tale _click_ that means the call has ended, but he seems to be frozen in place on the loveseat in his basement, white-knuckling the phone in his trembling hand as he feels his chest starting to tighten. Perhaps it’s a combination of seeing his friends again after so long and knowing that summer is almost over that has him feeling jittery, or so he tells himself in a fool’s attempt to stifle the shaking, but he knows better; he knows what being apart from them for the past two weeks has done to him, knows how miserable he had been at camp listening to sermon after sermon about how homosexuality is an abomination and not having Richie or Beverly beside him to scoff or roll their eyes, not having anyone to challenge that thought. Stanley had folded so inwardly on himself in the past two weeks that he had been almost unrecognizable to his mother when she’d gone to fetch him from the camp, and the entire car ride home he had said almost nothing, offering up only a few one-worded responses when she had tried to ask him about his time there. What was he supposed to tell her about exactly? How out of step he felt? How ostracized? How he isn’t sure he’ll ever be completely okay with the fact that he’s gay?

 _“Oh,”_ he gasps, and he clamps his hand over his mouth like a child who’s just uttered a foul word for the first time, feeling his tears trickle down his face and over his fingers as he pinches his shaking lips together, breathing sharply through his nose. This is not the first time Stanley has allowed this thought purchase in his mind, but it is the first time he hasn’t chased it out almost instantly, beating it down until it can barely lift its head. He lets the words bounce around a bit in his head: _I’m gay. I’m gay. I’m gay._ And the more they echo inside of him, the less scary they become. It’s almost like he can settle into them, like they’re a shiny new skin that he doesn’t feel dirty in, that he has no urge to clean or to fix, like they’re the first thing that is completely and one hundred percent _his._

“I have to tell them,” he croaks out loud, lowering the hand that had been covering his mouth to settle it in his lap, and he’s amazed at how steady his voice sounds. He blinks away a fresh wave of tears and wipes at his face and nose quickly, clearing the tear-tracks away. “I have to tell them,” he says it again, almost like an affirmation, like if he says it out-loud, he won’t back out when his friends are actually in front of him. He has lost track of how many times he’s almost told one of them the truth about himself - never all at once, it was always when he was alone with a few of them, when he was out back with Mike while the other boy fed the sheep or he was spending the day with Bill and Georgie or riding his bike around town with Ben, who’d gotten one about a month ago for his birthday. The thought had slid into his mind an infinite amount of times, and the idea always seemed pleasant enough, telling his closest people that he’s gay so that maybe he’d have _somewhere_ to be himself, but then he would think too long about what would happen if it went _wrong,_ if they _hated_ him, and he shut up real quick. It was only after those hellish two weeks at camp that Stanley has realized he has probably vastly underrated his friends, that he should give them more credit, that he should trust them to love him no matter what. Stanley decides he is going to trust them. He can’t keep this part of himself hidden from his friends any longer. He has no other option but to trust, and to trust fully.

He knows he looks an absolute wreck when his friends all but barrel down the basement steps. The only one who appears not to notice - or at least acts like he doesn’t - is Richie, who throws himself at Stanley like a long-lost lover, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and hugging him tightly. Stanley returns the boy’s embrace just as lavishly, smiling into his friend’s curls.

“I didn’t think I’d actually miss you this much, Stanley!” Richie grins when he pulls back to pat the other boy on the cheek.

“Rich, we’ve been inseparable since kindergarten,” Stanley deadpans and Richie’s face breaks into an even wider grin, stretching across his entire face. “Or did you forget?”

“How could I ever!” Richie cries. “You, me, Spaghetti Man, and Billy Boy - the fearsome foursome!” He throws one of his arms around Eddie’s shoulders and pulls the smaller boy to his side just as Bill hugs Stanley, both of them shaking their heads as Eddie shoves Richie. ( _"Don’t_ call me Spaghetti Man!” “Just embrace it, Eds…” “Don’t call me that either, dipshit!”)

“You okay?” Bill whispers in Stanley’s ear when the focus is on Richie and his usual antics. Stanley nods quietly against Bill’s shoulder, and Bill pats his back affectionately. “I r-r-really did miss you, Stan…”

“I missed you, too,” Stanley replies quietly, and then as he pulls away to face the rest of them, he adds, “I missed you all so much.” Eddie breaks free of Richie’s tormenting to hug Stanley, rolling his eyes when Richie starts to go on and on about how Stanley is stealing his man. Ben is the next to wrap Stanley up in a bear-hug, nearly knocking the wind out of the lanky boy as he does. Beverly hugs him next, bouncing on the balls of her feet, and Stanley lifts her off of them, spinning her around the basement as her laughter tinkles like a bell in the air. She kisses his cheek when he sets her down again, and he blushes all the way to the tops of his ears. Mike raises his hand in a silent request for a high-five, a smile on his handsome face, and Stanley slaps his own hand against Mike’s, letting the bigger boy pull him into a firm hug.

“Welcome home, Stan the Man,” he insists, squeezing him to his chest, and Stanley has to fight off another round of tears when he feels the whole group of them crowd around him and Mike, their arms wrapping around the pair of them in a tight group hug.

“This is so cute, you guys,” Richie coos, and Bill smacks him playfully upside the head.

“Don’t ruin the moment, Tr-Tra-Tr-Tr -- Richie,” he scolds half-heartedly.

 _“Moi?”_ Richie gasps. “Never.” Eddie snorts loudly.

“Guys,” Stanley whispers from the center of the circle, and all other chatter dies down as each one of them turns to look at their friend. “Guys, I -- I have to tell you something.” Bill and Mike are the closest ones to him, the latter still with his arms coiled around Stanley, so he is the first to notice when the boy starts to shake.

“You can tell us anything, Stan,” Eddie promises, putting his hand on Stanley’s shoulder, and Stanley feels his lip start to quiver at the boy’s touch, always so gentle with the people around him. He looks up and sees Beverly nod at him encouragingly, her blue eyes soft as she smiles at him and bumps her forehead against the side of his head. He feels another hand tracing circles on his back and he knows without looking up that it belongs to Bill, and he leans into his touch, eyes fluttering shut.

“I -- ” Stanley croaks, and Ben grabs his hand comfortingly when he sees his fingers shaking at his side. “Guys, I’m -- I’m -- ” he sucks in a sharp breath, squares his shoulders, and then lets it out through his nose slowly. “I’m gay…” He says this quietly, his words seeming to hang in the silence like they aren’t quite sure what to do now that they exist outside of his own head. He cannot look at a single one of them, harrowed by their lack of a response, and he feels his stomach start to twist just as Richie speaks up, breaking the spell.

"That’s it?” Richie scoffs. “I thought you were gonna tell us you were knocked up…”

 _“Beep beep, Richie!”_ all of the boys roar, and Beverly slaps his arm sharply before looking hurriedly back at Stanley, only to find him shaking with what she thinks are sobs.

“Oh, Stan, honey - don’t be upset just because Trashmouth is a _fucking_ idiot!” she growls, slapping Richie again, but then Stanley whirls around and hugs Richie, and they all realize that he’s _laughing._

“Thank you, Rich,” Stanley says, hugging him tightly, and Richie pats his back, sending a smug grin Beverly’s way when her jaw drops. “Thank you…”

“No thanks necessary, Stanley,” Richie promises. “Us queers gotta stick together, yeah?” Stanley grows rigid in Richie’s grasp.

“W-What?” Stanley gasps.

“I’m gay, too, buddy. So what?” Richie shrugs, and now everyone’s eyes are on the two boys.

“Richie,” Mike says cautiously. “Did you just say you were gay?” Richie snorts and rolls his eyes.

“What - like _none_ of you were expecting this?” he accuses, looking at each of them in turn. Bill has a small but knowing grin on his face. Mike is shaking his head in silent amazement. Beverly looks like she is close to tears herself, and Eddie is flushed scarlet red. Ben is chuckling quietly, a fond look in his eyes.

“Well,” Ben begins, “none of us wanted to assume or anything…”

“No need to wonder any further!” Richie decrees, pulling Stanley to his side. “Yes, indeed, Richie Tozier is open for business for five of you! Sorry, Bevs,” he shoots a pout her way, “I know you wanted a piece of this…”

“I’m crushed,” she deadpans.

“Well,” Bill starts, smiling, “I think this is cause for celeb-b-bration.” Stanley smiles at him, loving that his mind immediately goes to celebrate when his friends come out to him. Bill Denbrough has to be the kindest person Stanley thinks he’ll ever meet.

“What did you have in mind, Big Bill?” Richie asks.

“Well… It’s summer… Beach?” is all Eddie puts forth. Everyone’s eyes light up, but they all look to Bill for confirmation, as they seem to naturally do.

“Beach,” Bill confirms.

 

* * *

 

When Terri Denbrough’s minivan pulls up to Eddie Kaspbrak’s house, he immediately jumps out the door with his backpack filled with his beach supplies. His mom calls out the door to him.

“Eddie Bear! Don’t forget to wear sunscreen and not to go in the ocean!” Eddie waves his hand behind him without turning around, cheeks dangerously red as he waddles towards Bill’s mother’s car, doing his best to balance the beach chair on his back equipt with its own personal tiny umbrella. Bill hops out of the front seat to help Eddie load up his things into the center of the car, laying it down at Stanley’s feet, who smiles at him and bops the brim of his hat playfully so that it falls to cover his eyes.

“Lookin’ sharp, Kaspbrak,” Stanley crows just as Georgie leans across his lap from where he’s seated in a booster beside him.

“Hi, Eddie!” the little boy squeals, waving wildly at his big brother’s friend, and Eddie waves back just as happily while he adjusts his hat.

“Hi, Georgie,” he grins. “All ready for the beach?” Georgie nods quickly, bouncing his legs so much that the pail and shovel in his lap nearly topple to the floor of the minivan.

“Uh-huh!” Georgie answers, and Stanley reaches over to ruffle the boy’s hair fondly.

“Thank you for picking me up, Mrs. Denbrough,” Eddie says sweetly, and Terri swivels around in the front seat to smile at the boy kindly.

“Of course, dear,” she replies, and Eddie’s eyes scan the inside of the minivan slowly, and when he comes up empty on locating a vacant seat, he frowns, brow furrowing.

“Um, Bill?” Eddie asks gently, not wanting to come off as rude. “Where am I supposed to sit?” He hears Ben snort from the back seat, followed quickly by a squeak when Beverly elbows him in the ribs.

“Oh, you s-see, Eddie - my m-mom’s car doesn’t have enough room for us all, so-so-somebody has to sit in the tr-tr-trunk,” Bill explains, and Eddie balks.

“What!” he shrieks. “That’s so dangerous!”  

“Ooh, c’mon, Eds - live a little, baby,” Beverly smirks, reaching from the backseat to pinch his cheek.

“You’re the smallest, Eds,” Mike shrugs. “It’s only fair.”

“I am not the smallest!” he argues, and he is immediately met with pointed looks from every one of them. “Oh, _whatever._ The answer is still _no -_ this is absolutely, positively _not_ fair!” Eddie refutes, and Ben cannot seem to refrain from chuckling again. “Why does it have to be me?” he demands, folding his arms across his chest.

“Oh, don’t worry, Spaghetti Man,” Richie’s voice sounds from what appears to be thin air, as Eddie cannot see hide nor hair of the boy, but it only takes another moment for Eddie to realize where he is. Richie pokes his head out from where he had been lying down in the trunk to grin at him between Ben and Beverly’s heads, and all that is visible is his own wild mop of curls and the very top of the frames of his glasses, but Eddie doesn’t need to see his entire face to know that he’s grinning, he can hear it in his voice when he says, “You’ve got me to keep you company!”

“Guys, _seriously_?” Eddie whines, and Richie lets out a gasp.

“Hey, I’m not _that_ bad!” he cries, and when Eddie hears a touch of genuine hurt in the other boy’s voice, he huffs loudly, hands on his hips.

“Oh, _fine,_ ” Eddie relents, accepting defeat. “But only because we’re already late…” He follows Bill to the flank of the minivan, feeling the blush that had flared up at the base of his neck creeping slowly upward as the other boy opens the trunk. Richie, being a mess of limbs all on his own, takes up nearly all of the space without even trying, his long legs only being able to fold in so much due to the angle at which he has to sit.

“Make yourself comfortable, Eds,” Richie smiles up at him, holding his arms out, and Eddie groans.

“Is it too late to draw straws?” he asks. “I still disagree that I’m the smallest…”

“We c-c-could take some measurements,” Bill jokes, and that makes the entire car laugh.

“Fellas, if we’re goin’ by _size_ here,” Richie begins, wiggling his eyebrows, “then Eddie and I _definitely_ don’t belong back here…”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Stanley says sternly, whirling around to make eye contact with the boy in the trunk. “No crude jokes around the kid,” he insists, jerking his head towards Georgie.

“Right,” Richie nods, wincing, suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry, Bill,” he adds, and Bill waves his hand.

“G-Georgie’s been around you enough to know to never listen to y-you, Rich,” Bill teases, ruffling Richie’s hair between his fingers, and Richie smiles, relieved to know the other boy isn’t upset with him. “A-After you, Eddie,” Bill waves his arm towards the trunk and Eddie sighs.

“You _all_ owe me for this one,” he informs hotly as he climbs into the trunk, slotting his own legs in between Richie’s so that they’re practically braided together, their legs on top of one another. Bill closes the trunk door once they’re both properly situated, and as soon as he hops back into his place in the front passenger seat, his mother begins to drive. “God, Richie, are you ever gonna stop growing?” Eddie grumbles as he shifts a bit, repositioning his lower half so that his back isn’t as pressed against the side of the trunk, and he accidentally knocks his foot into Richie’s hip. “Sorry,” he blushes.

“S’okay, Eds,” Richie shrugs, and then he looks over at his friend timidly, eyes somewhat downcast. “You comfortable? I can try to move over a little more…”

“I think this is as good as it’s gonna get, Rich,” Eddie says with a shrug of his own, but he sends him a small, gracious smile, touched that he offered at all. “I’m just gonna have to deal with your string bean legs…”

“Hey! I do not have string bean legs!” Richie gasps, nudging Eddie with his knee, and Ben groans at the sound of their usual play-fighting.

“I cannot listen to you two bicker for this entire car ride,” he says, only mildly serious as he, like the others, couldn’t help but be entranced whenever the two boys started to fool around as they did, always in sync, one never acting without the other being close behind. Eddie reaches up to flick Ben in the back of the head playfully.

“Well, then, maybe you shouldn’t have stuck the two of us back here, huh, Benjamin?” Eddie challenges, and Richie wraps his arm around Eddie’s shoulders, drawing him even closer to his side than he already is.

“Yeah, _Benjamin_ \- there’s no need for jealousy. There’s enough of ol’ Richie to go around. Eddie’ll just have to share,” he blows Ben a kiss and Ben rolls his eyes, turning back to face forward, and Eddie is grateful he’s looked away because he can feel his face growing hotter by the second. He untangles Richie’s arm from his shoulder and slumps back against the wall of the trunk, blushing madly, and it takes every ounce of willpower Richie has not to smirk.

The ride to the beach probably wouldn’t have taken so long if Bill’s mother wasn’t adamant about going the precise speed limit the entire way down I-95, ignoring Richie’s crows of, “Put some muscle into it, Terri! I haven’t been able to feel my calves for twenty minutes! I’m cramping up!”

 _“You?”_ Eddie cries, interrupting Richie’s whining. “I’m the one who’s cramped back here! You and your spider limbs have monopolized this entire trunk! I’m working with a few square feet here, _max…_ ”

“Sorry, boys!” Terri Denbrough calls to them from the front of the van. “Can’t drive too fast - we’d be in a whole heap of trouble if I got pulled over and had you two back there. You all wanna get to the beach, don’t you?”

“Yes,” the children chime in a monotone, and Terri nods.

“I thought so,” she says. “Now, sit tight, we’re just about there…”

“Sit tight is right,” Eddie grumbles under his breath, and Richie pokes at his cheek.

“Aw, Eds, I told you it’d probably be a lot more comfortable if we cuddled,” Richie jokes, holding his arms out to the other boy. “Offer still stands...” he adds in a businessman Voice.

“I’ll pass, thanks,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes in an attempt to distract from the sudden flushing of his cheeks, hardly even allowing himself to consider it as an option.

“Your loss, Kaspbrak…” Richie sighs dramatically, and Eddie wonders briefly if it’s really all an act, if the longing in Richie’s voice isn’t completely for show, but he shuts the thought down almost as quickly as it comes. _He’s just being Trashmouth,_ he thinks. _As always._

Georgie is the first to notice that they’ve arrived, cheering loudly as his mother pulls into the parking lot and the whole group of them break into wide grins when they look out the windows and see the ocean stretching far and wide in the distance, its waves ebbing and flowing calmly. They all clamber out of the van as soon as it comes to a stop, Beverly being the one to retrieve Richie and Eddie from the trunk, yanking the door open without warning and nearly sending them both toppling onto the pavement.

“Jesus, a warning would be nice, Beverly,” Richie grunts, stretching out his legs slowly and wiggling his toes as Eddie cracks his back loudly. “That’s disgusting, Eds,” he says just before turning his back to him and extending his arms out behind him, towards Eddie, “me next, please.” Eddie rolls his eyes and grabs both of Richie’s wrists, pulling on them sharply so that the other boy’s back can crack as well, and when it does, Richie sighs. “You’re an angel…”

“Shut up,” Eddie blushes. “My status as an ascended immortal has nothing to do with my back-cracking skills...”

“Isn’t it a part of everything, darlin’?” Richie sighs dramatically, cupping his chin with his hand. Eddie shakes his head and goes to retrieve his things from the van to hide his twisted grin while Beverly runs to catch up with Ben and Mike, but he finds Stanley with his things instead. He is already at the foot of the tiny boardwalk that leads onto the beach, holding Eddie’s backpack and chair out to him, his other hand clasped in Georgie’s.

“C’mon, you two! Everybody else is already halfway to the water!” he shouts. Eddie and Richie look at one another quickly, sharing a smile, and then they’re running up to meet them, and the four boys make their way down the dunes together, finding their friends fairly quickly.

Terri has already set herself up with her chair, her umbrella, and her current romance novel propped open in her lap; she has a perfect view of all of them, and she calls out to Stanley when she sees him dart past her, towing her youngest son alongside him. “Stanley, you know to watch him with the waves, right?” she asks, though she already knows the answer. If there was ever one of Bill’s friends she’d trust wholeheartedly with her baby, it’s Stanley Uris.

“Of course, Mrs. Denbrough,” Stanley nods, lifting the small boy onto his shoulders, and Terri smiles when Georgie lets out an excited peal of laughter. “I’d _never_ let the sea monsters get this little guy!” Stanley promises, reaching up to tickle Georgie, and Georgie only giggles more, folding forward at the waist and grabbing at Stanley’s curls to steady himself.

“Woah, jeez!” Georgie crows. “Careful with me, I’m precious cargo!”

“Ain’t that the truth, little man,” Stanley says, smiling up at him. “Now, c’mon, don’t you wanna see the ocean?”

“I can see it from here!” Georgie heaves a big, put-upon sigh.

“Oh, can you?” Stanley counters. “Well, how about going _in_ the ocean?” Stanley can practically feel Georgie vibrating with excitement.

“I’ve only ever been in the ocean once before, Stanny, I’m so excited!” Stanley starts walking them towards the steady waves, the wet sand squishing between his toes. Usually, the feeling makes his anxiety skyrocket, knowing he’ll never get the sand out from underneath his toenails. But with Georgie on his shoulders distracting him, he barely even registers the pang of nervousness. He feels a bit invincible with this little boy’s trust in him.

“C’mon, Stanny, hurry!” Georgie whines. “I wanna get in! Can you lemme down?”

“Sure, pal,” Stanley says, lifting Georgie off his shoulders and down onto the cool sand below them. “Remember that the Maine ocean isn’t as warm as the water you felt when you went to Disney World last summer. It’s gonna be cold.”

“Why?” Georgie asks, looking up at him as he stops walking.

“Well, we’re in a colder part of the world. Remember how hot it was in Florida?” Georgie nods. “The sun is stronger the closer to the equator you get, and Florida is much closer to the middle of the earth than Maine is.”

“Oh!” Georgie pipes, thinking on this for a bit. “How cold will it be?”

“Probably the warmest it gets to be all year. August is the hottest time of year for us.” Georgie looks back to the ocean and squares his shoulders, steeling himself and grabbing Stanley’s hand.

“Well, I guess we’re just gonna have to rip off the bandaid, Stanny,” Georgie says gravely. “That’s what Bill says when I have to go in the pool and I don’t wanna.”

“I suppose we do, buddy,” Stanley smiles, stifling laughter.

“Run with me, Stanny. On three.”

“One,” Stanley starts, squeezing Georgie’s small hand.

“Two,” Georgie says trepidatiously. But then he spots Beverly dunking Richie into the water and he smiles. _It can’t be all that scary if my friends don’t think it is_ , Georgie thinks.

“Three!” they shout in unison, and then they’re off towards the water, kicking up sand behind them. Georgie’s laughter is high-pitched and cuts through the salty air like a bell and is infectious as they gallop into the ocean, splashing as they go. They catch the attention of several families and their friends that are already in the water.

“Hey!” Richie bellows over the crashing waves. “Don’t have too much fun without us!”

“Too late!” Stanley calls back, smiling down at Georgie who is now shivering, most of his body submerged in the water already while Stanley himself is only up to his stomach. “Georgie, you sure you wanna get your head wet?”

“I’m brave, Stanny!” Georgie cries, dunking himself in the water, all without losing his vice-grip on Stanley’s hand. Stanley smiles down at him, shaking his head.

“You sure are, Georgie.” Stanley looks up briefly and scans the ocean water. He spots Bill’s shining face in the myriad of strangers, and he’s looking back at Stanley, smile wide and sunny as he watches his friend and his brother. He waves at Stanley and Stanley waves back. They both get a sudden surge of affection for the other before Ben splashes Bill hard and Bill’s attention is diverted. Stanley shakes his head at his friends’ antics and looks back down at Georgie who is surfacing, sputtering and eyes squeezed shut.

“I forgot the ocean stings your eyes!” Georgie yells, wiping at his face with his free arm.

“Oh, buddy,” Stanley coos, walking them back to the sand and crouching down in the shallow water. “Let me look.” Georgie turns to him and tries to open his eyes, but he squeezes them shut again, shaking his head wordlessly. “Georgie, I’m gonna have to see if your eyes are okay. I’m sure they are, I just have to check.”

Georgie lets out a harsh sigh and grimaces as he peeks his eyes open. They’re a bit red, but nothing seems to be wrong. After a bit of prodding and humming for extra effect, Stanley stands up and wipes his hands off.

“Looks to be good, Dr. Denbrough.” Georgie giggles, squinting up at him.

“Can I go back in, Dr. Standley?” Georgie asks pleadingly. Stanley strokes his chin, humming deeply again and trying not to smile at Georgie tripping over his full name.

“I _suppose_ , Doctor,” Stanley relents. Georgie cheers, turning and running back in. “But don’t put your head under without me!”

“Okay, Stanny!” he hears Georgie shout back, the splashing his feet overtaking most of his words. Stanley laughs as he sees Bill and Beverly come towards him out of the water, completely soaked.

“Hey, Stanley,” Bill says once he gets close enough. “How’s the l-l-little man doing?”

“Oh, he’s just fine,” Stanley smiles, looking over Bill’s shoulder at Georgie splashing happily in the water. “I’m sure he’ll get distracted when Eddie tells him he brought sand toys to play with.”

“Oh, definitely,” Beverly assures, nodding as she watches Georgie with a smile of her own. As they all stand together watching Bill’s younger brother have the time of his life, Stanley gets the feeling that maybe he’s a third wheel right now, that maybe he should go into the water and find the rest of his friends, or go sit on the blanket with Terri. Bill and Beverly have been extra close as of late. But he shakes the feeling as Georgie turns and waves at all of them excitedly. They all wave back, standing united, their love for the young boy tangled together and woven between them. Stanley thinks that will bond the three of them together forever, if nothing else will.

“Hey, Georgie!” Eddie calls as he emerges from the ocean. “I’ve gotta go back to the roust and apply some more sunblock, will you come with me so I can show you my sandcastle toys?”

“ _Sandcastle toys?_ ” Georgie shrieks. “Yeah, sure, Eddie!” He and Georgie come out of the ocean together and pass Beverly, Stanley and Bill standing at the shoreline and watching them. Eddie gives them a perplexed look at their soft smiles.

“Everything okay, guys?” Eddie questions. They all nod fiercely.

“Definitely,” Beverly says. “We were just having a good time watching this little guy get up to trouble!” She ruffles Georgie’s wet hair as he passes by her and he giggles, batting at her hands.

“Beverly!” he cries. “No!”

“Richie is looking to get up to a game of Chicken later, you all in?” Eddie wonders. Bill flashes him a grin and a thumbs up.

“Sounds good,” Stanley says. “Can’t wait to utterly destroy that lanky monster.”

“Well, I hope not,” Beverly says. “He already demanded I be his partner and I’d prefer not to be destroyed.”

Stanley’s responding grin is wolfish and twisted. “We’ll see.”

 

When Eddie looks up and sees Richie coming out of the ocean dripping wet and looking like a damn male model or something, he’s fucking _pissed_ , alright? Because the thing is, Richie isn’t even _trying_ to look like he’s come out of one of Eddie’s very elaborate and shameful fantasies. He isn’t _trying_ to make Eddie’s mouth go dry or to make his hands shake or to make him stare, eyes wide, like every other girl on this beach probably is. He’s angry. Eddie never deserved this particular brand of torture. He’s been a good person, he helps his mother with the groceries and doesn’t cheat on his tests in school. He’s a _good person_ and he doesn’t _deserve_ to have his heart stutter in his chest whenever he sees his best friend. That’s not okay, he knows it, and he’s pissed off about it.

So when Richie sees him and his smile lights up his face, he fights to stay angry. He fights valiantly and as hard as he possibly can. But, despite his best efforts, Eddie Kaspbrak is weak as hell for that stupid smile and everything that comes with it.

“Hey, Eds,” Richie says as he walks over. “Nice nose.”

“What?” Eddie touches the side of his nose and finds only the thick coating of sunscreen he’d put on it. “What about it?”

“Nothin’,” Richie simpers, plopping down and presumably getting sand all over himself. “You’re just cute.”

“Shut up,” Eddie chides, face flushing scarlet and looking away from Richie like he’s been burned. The image of Richie smiling coyly at him as his skin shines in the sun as he calls him cute is enough to make him want to run the whole 45 miles back to Derry. But he stays where he is and looks back at Georgie, a safe place for them all to hide in times of peril, and smiles at him.

“Hey, Georgie, doesn’t Richie look like the Energizer Bunny today?” Richie gasps, affronted, with a choked-off laugh. Georgie considers this as he scans Richie’s outfit. He then shoots Eddie a sunny smile and nods vigorously.

“The pink bathing suit! It’s just like him!” And, really, Eddie’s not _wrong_. When Richie had his sunglasses and flip flops on and was bouncing around the beach excitedly, he really did look the spitting image of the Energizer Bunny. “That’s the best commercial, Richie, don’t be sad.”

“I’m not _sad_ , Georgie, I’m actually kind of impressed,” Richie says, appraising Eddie with a proud smile. “Eds got off on a good one.”

“Oh, did I? Is this somehow a new development? Have I never gotten my chucks off at your expense before?” Eddie challenges, leaning towards Richie a bit, experimentally, radiating a confidence he wouldn’t normally have unless he’d recently gained the upper hand. Richie smirks, leaning into his space, so close his breath ghosts across Eddie’s mouth. He shivers despite himself. _Best friend, Kaspbrak,_ he scolds himself angrily _. Get it through your thick skull._

“Maybe not your _chucks_ , but certainly your _rocks,_ ” Richie says, voice pitched low and smooth, quiet enough so that Georgie can’t hear him. Eddie’s breath catches in his throat and he knows he’s paused for just a moment too long when Richie smirks. As soon as he sees that familiar twisted smile bloom on Richie’s face, Eddie shoves him hard into the sand.

“Screw off, Tozier,” he spits. Richie laughs, rolling in the hot, dry sand and clutching his stomach. Eddie looks over at him and his frown morphs into a small smile at the sight.

Richie wipes a tear as his laughter fades. He suddenly ambles up and extends both his hands.

“C’mon, fellas, the group wants to play Chicken.”

“You sure that’s not just you?” Eddie asks with a brow raised.

“Oh, it’s definitely just me,” Richie agrees. “But I know I can get the little man to come along when I tell him how fun the game is.”

“No need, Richie, I’m all done with my sandcastle!” Georgie smiles, gesturing to the lumpy pile of sand with both arms. “Do you like it?”

“Well, _by George,_ ” Richie cries, pretending to adjust the spectacles that aren’t on his face. Eddie told him to leave them with Terri because he was certain to either lose or break them in the water. Georgie giggles at the turn of phrase. “I think you’ve made the best sandcastle this side of the Atlantic!”

“Really?” Georgie squeals. Richie nods gravely.

“I’m certain, young padawan,” Richie assures. Eddie smiles at the conversation the two of them are having. _Richie’s so good with kids…_ Eddie thinks fondly, not for the first time, and immediately shuts the thought down before it can go any further and develop into something fully-formed and enough to cut off his air supply completely. His inhaler is all the way back with Terri and he doesn’t need to be running across the beach in search of it because Richie said something cute to a child he cares about. Eddie breathes out slowly. He digs his hands into the sand, feeling the tiny grains move around his fingers and bend to his will, desperately searching to have power over something, even if it’s simply the earth itself.

“You guys still wanna play Chicken?” Eddie asks. Georgie nods, giggling, and jumps up, calling out to the group that the game is about to begin. Eddie grabs the sunscreen and puts an extra layer quickly on his arms and chest. He attempts to rub it into his back as Richie watches, amused.

“You need some help with that?” he titters. Eddie glares up at him.

“I’ve got it,” he snaps. Richie’s laugh breaks through.

“Come on, Eds, not even _my_ arms are long enough to put sunscreen on my own back.”

“What, with your spider arms?”

“Ooh, another spider reference, I’m hurt,” Richie cries, clutching his chest. “Lemme just…” Richie kneels gracelessly on the ground behind Eddie and holds out his hand. “Sunscreen, please.”

Eddie breathes out, and it sounds a bit more shaky and pleading than he means it to, like he truly can’t handle Richie touching his skin. Beverly had put the first round of sunblock on his back and it was nothing compared to what he’s sure will be a very _different_ experience with Richie. But Richie hears the desperation in Eddie’s sigh and he decides to stop messing with him, at least until they’re back in the ocean. He doesn’t know why Eddie would be so nervous for something as innocent as this, but he doesn’t want to upset his friend on such a nice day, so he quietly squirts the suntan lotion into his cupped palm, feet jittering behind him in the sand as he does.

Eddie closes his eyes and breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, but at the first touch of Richie’s hands to his skin, he honestly doesn’t know what he was so worried about. This is _Richie Tozier_. There was never anything to be afraid of with Richie, even his own volatile, fiery reactions to him. As Richie’s hands slowly map out his back, Eddie finds himself comforted not only by Richie’s slow, methodical movements, but by the summer sun warming his skin and the sounds of children enjoying themselves around them as well. It’s a calm, kind moment, something Eddie never thought he’d ever share with Richie. It makes him wonder if they could share more of the same, despite his own fears surrounding the subject.

Richie’s hands travel up to the back of his neck and Eddie bows his head as Richie pushes aside the curls that have formed at the base of his skull. He smooths his hands over Eddie’s shoulders and then squeezes them lightly.

“All done, Eds,” Richie whispers, voice just a breath in the air around them. The fondness in it travels down, buries itself in Eddie’s soul and makes a home there. Eddie opens his eyes and smiles down at his own twisted hands in his lap. Richie hoists himself up by leaning on Eddie’s shoulders and extends his hand. He’s lit up by the sun behind him when Eddie shields his eyes to look at him. He sees Richie’s soft smile as he gazes down at him. He looks absolutely angelic, messy hair having dried in wild tufts around his head, lighting it up like a halo, and Eddie feels it, the very thing he’s been avoiding all day, for years maybe: _butterflies._

But Eddie’s not scared by this. Eddie has been waiting for the realization to hit him that Richie is someone he could love, knowing that it would eventually. He has seen the good, the bad and the ugly of Richie Tozier and he has stayed for all of it, has chosen him throughout, because of and despite it all. Richie Tozier is the best friend Eddie’s got on this stupid, angry earth. He’s also the boy Eddie is desperately falling in love with despite his best efforts not to.

Eddie smiles at Richie gently and grabs his hand. Richie hauls him up and they bump into each other, chest to chest. They both giggle lightly and walk towards the ocean, hand in quietly loving hand.

 

Now, Chicken might not necessarily be a very sophisticated game, but if anybody could take it so seriously that it’s almost laughable, it’s Stanley Uris. He stands at the waterline, arms folded across his chest as he surveys the group around him, trying to pair everybody up fairly.

“And just who was it that died and made you Chicken Team Officiator, Stanley?” Richie suddenly asks, turning his nose up at his friend playfully, and Stanley rolls his eyes at him. “Just because you’re a hotshot on the sandlot, that suddenly puts you in charge of every game us ragamuffins play, is that it?”

“Yeah, Trashmouth, that’s it…” Stanley nods, and Richie shrugs.

“Fair enough,” he relents simply, and Stanley shoves him.

“I really hate you sometimes,” he insists, and Richie blows him a kiss. “You and Bev are one team because I think Richie might kill me if I don’t make that so,” he adds, and Richie whirls around to high-five Beverly, the two of them linking fingers immediately.

“You’re all toast,” Beverly declares, dropping Richie’s hand to sling her arm around his shoulders, and he nods eagerly while the rest of them chuckle. Georgie suddenly starts to hop up and down, waving his hand in front of Stanley’s face.

“Me next, Stanny! Me next! Who’s my partner?” the little boy asks, his toothy grin shining up at the older boy, and Stanley taps his finger to his chin, looking around at all of them slowly.

“Eds, you wanna team up with the little man?” Stanley wonders, and Eddie nods happily. “That sound good to you, Georgie?”

“Yeah!” Georgie says, hopping to stand beside Eddie and grab his hand. “We’re gonna win, right, Eddie?”

“We’ll sure try our best, buddy,” Eddie promises, ruffling his hair. “I can’t say if we’ll win every round, but you’re definitely stronger than Richie…”

 _“Hey!”_ Richie protests when Georgie erupts into a fit of giggles, hiding his mouth behind his hand and slumping against Eddie’s side, but Stanley quickly calls them back to order with hardly anything more than a look.

“Bill, you and Ben can be a team,” Stanley continues, and the two boys look at one another, sharing a smile and a quiet nod of agreement. “And that leaves you and me, Mikey.”

“Gosh,” Mike sighs, wiping away an imaginary tear, “I’m honored, Stanley, that I have been deemed worthy enough to be your chicken partner -- truly honored...”

“Speech! Speech! Speech!” Richie starts chanting, his hands cupped around his mouth, and soon the rest of them join him as Mike presses his hand over his heart, a misty look in his dark eyes.

“I’d like to thank the Academy -- ” Mike drawls, and Stanley pulls him into a headlock, messing up his hair that has grown out a bit, not quite the tight crew cut he had when they were kids, but not enough to make his afro frizz too much more in the humid summer air. The whole group of them roars with laughter. “Alright, uncle! _Uncle!_ ” Stanley releases him and Mike claps him on the shoulder, each with grins stretching wide across their faces. Mike turns to the rest of them, brow furrowed. “Well, what are we all still doing standing around here?”

They all take off running into the ocean. Richie dives right under a surging wave just before it crashes against the shoreline and Beverly is right behind him, popping up from beneath the surface to whip her hair back from her face, blinking the salt-water from her eyes before making to climb up onto Richie’s shoulders.

“Oh, no, no, Bevs - I wanna do the fighting!” Richie says, grinning, and she arches her brow at her friend.

“You sure about that?” she asks, and Richie nods urgently. “Okay,” she sighs, and she lets him clamber up onto her shoulders instead, his long legs dangling on either side of her as she holds onto his thighs, balancing him so that his weight is evenly proportioned. “Christ, Tozier, don’t have anymore growth spurts, okay?”

“I’ll try my hardest, Bevs,” he grins, ruffling her curls where they’d gone flat against her head. He turns and comes face-to-face with Bill, who is on Ben’s shoulders. “My, my, Billy, look how much you’ve grown!” Richie crows in his grandmotherly Voice, and Bill points at him sternly.

“N-No heckling in this g-game, Trashmouth,” Bill warns, and Richie crosses his fingers over his heart.

“On my honor!” he swears, and Stanley scoffs from where he’s perched on Mike’s shoulders.

“You _have_ no honor, numbskull,” he insists, and Mike laughs loudly.

“Eddie, what’s _numbskull_ mean?” Georgie asks sweetly, looking down at the older boy from where’s he’s sitting up on his shoulders and mindlessly playing with Eddie’s hair.

“You just don’t worry about that, buddy,” Eddie says, craning his neck to look up at him, and Georgie nods, accepting the answer and dropping the subject entirely in a way that seems too mature for his age but doesn’t shock Eddie in the slightest; it’s a very _Bill_ thing to do, and it makes Eddie smile as the first round of Chicken between Richie, Bev, Bill, and Ben begins. Richie flails his arms madly as he attempts to knock Bill into the water, but Bill puts up a good fight, nudging him back as the two of them wrestle on for a while before Bill finally overpowers Richie and sends him tumbling off over Beverly’s shoulders with a shout. He resurfaces and barely catches his breath before demanding a do-over, but even Beverly insists they push on to the next round.

“You’re supposed to be on _my_ side, Bev! We’re a team!” Richie cries, splashing her, and she splashes him right back, sticking her tongue out at him childishly as Georgie laughs at the pair of them bickering while Bill and Stanley are in the midst of an all-out war, fists clamped around elbows as each of them fight for the upper hand. Eventually, Bill wins again, and it’s Stanley’s turn to pout beside Richie, both of them bobbing like a pair of corks over the waves as they roll calmly along.

“Eddie! It’s our turn, Eddie!” Georgie pipes up, tugging on the older boy’s ears like they’re reigns to a horse, and Eddie laughs as Bill and Ben stalk towards the two of them playfully, Bill wiggling his fingers menacingly at his little brother and making him squeal.

“You’re goin’ down, Denbrough,” Bill threatens playfully, and Georgie raises his own hands up in defense against his big brother.

“No, _you’re_ goin’ down, _Denbrough_!” the little boy shoots back, and Eddie is grateful that the focus is all on Georgie, that each one of them harbors so much love for Bill’s little brother, that there isn’t a single one of them who wouldn’t prefer to have Georgie around. Eddie looks at his friends then as the brothers battle over his and Ben’s heads, and every one of them is smiling - even Bill is grinning as he fights back decidedly less against the smaller boy, letting him get in a few more jabs than he’d let slide for Richie and Stanley. When Georgie finally succeeds in pushing Bill off of Ben’s shoulders, the whole group erupts into cheers. “We did it, Eddie!” Georgie squeaks, leaning forward to hug Eddie’s head, and Eddie chuckles.

“Nah, that was all you, buddy - you’re the brawns of this operation,” Eddie insists, patting the little boy’s head as Stanley swims over to high-five Georgie and Beverly leans over to kiss his cheek.

“I’ll tell you what, if _anyone_ deserved to bring about the end of Billiam’s reign, it’s you, King Georgie,” Richie promises, bowing to him, and he leans so far forward that when he lifts his head up sharply, the water in his curls flies in every direction, splashing Mike and Ben, who are closest to him. “Alright, who’s up for Round 2?”

 

When Richie finally realizes that he and Beverly are never going to win a single round of Chicken and that his, frankly, _traitorous_ friends won’t even allow him to win one round, he begins to grow tired of the game and his eyes rove over the rest of the beach. He sees a lot of people enjoying themselves, some pretty enough to catch Richie’s eye, but what really has Richie is noticing that the volleyball net is currently open and nobody is using it.

“Guys!” he shrieks, pointing wildly. “Guys! Beach volleyball!”

“Shut _up_ , Trashmouth, you’re gonna throw us off our game over here!” Eddie scolds from where he’s concentrating on keeping Georgie on his shoulders. But once the young boy hears tell of a different game, one he doesn’t know how to play, he’s hooked.

“Ooh, what’s beach volleyball?” Georgie asks, looking around and arms going limp around Mike’s shoulders.

“Georgie, keep your head in the game!” Eddie crows, trying desperately not to let the boy fall backwards, but he’s far too distracted, and he and Georgie go toppling backwards into the ocean with one light push from Mike.

“Ahh!” Georgie cries once he surfaces, furiously wiping at his eyes. “Gosh dangit!”

“You okay, buddy?” Eddie calls out once he breaks the surface of the water, looking around for Georgie.

“Yeah, I’m okay…” Georgie huffs, eyes darting around to make sure his friends aren’t laughing at him. “I’m embarrassed…”

“Oh, no, Georgie, it’s okay,” Eddie coos, pulling him to the shore with an arm around his shoulders. “It’s _Richie’s fault_ , anyway.”

“Hey!” Richie shouts when Eddie and Georgie pass and Eddie shoots Richie a glare that could put hair on his chest. “It’s not my fault I got excited!”

“It’s okay, guys. We were all getting t-t-tired of that game, anyway,” Bill soothes, coming up on Georgie’s other side and also wrapping an arm around him. Georgie’s stress immediately lessens at the feeling of his brother’s skin, the calming tones in his voice.

“Are you sure, Billy? I didn’t ruin the game, did I?” Georgie asks, looking up at his brother, eyes wide and searching.

“No way, pal. You and Eddie are the r-r-reigning champs, anyway!” Bill calls proudly, jostling them both slightly. “Congratulations!”

“Wow! Did you hear that, Eddie? Rain champs!” Georgie cries. Bill pulls him close and Georgie’s feet lift up off the ocean floor and Georgie kicks his feet in the water excitedly.

“Yeah, buddy! I’m really proud of you!” Eddie smiles. “You did so good! The best teammate I’ve ever had.”

Georgie grins back, eyes closing with the force of it, allowing Eddie and Bill to pull him along as his friends follow them out of the ocean. Richie goes to follow and Stanley points at him sternly.

“No. You’re quarantined to the ocean for distracting the players.”

“What!” Richie cries. “For how long?!”

“Until the first match of volleyball is over,” Stanley says smugly. Richie gasps.

“You _wouldn’t_ ,” Richie seethes.

“Oh, I think I would,” Stanley nods. “You derailed the game and for that, you must pay.”

Richie huffs and crosses his arms, bobbing on a particularly strong wave. “Bill, you can’t agree with this absolute _garbage_ , can you?”

“I dunno,” Bill shrugs. “You _did_ derail the game…”

“But that’s only because the volleyball net is free! It won’t be for long!” Richie reasons. “You guys say yourselves you’re gonna play!”

They all stand on the water’s edge, watching Richie whine in the water. Georgie, of course, is the voice of reason.

“I wanna play with Richie, too.” And that, they suppose, is that.

“Alright, Rich, c’mon out,” Stanley sighs, hooking is arm in the air and beckoning Richie over. Richie yells in excitement and exits the water with his hands on his hips and his already-drying hair flowing behind him. He’s dripping wet and looks like he’s coming straight out of a television show and Eddie is staring. He knows he is. But he wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away if he tried.

“Jeez, Richie, this isn’t fucking _Baywatch_ , god…” Eddie grumbles, looking Richie up and down with reddened cheeks. He’s already prepared an excuse about sunburn if Richie brings it up. Richie notices and smiles broad and wolfishly, but it quickly gets wiped away when he’s bowled over by a wave approaching the shore. They all burst out laughing, even Georgie, and Eddie feels like the ball is back in his court as Richie comes up for air, sputtering.

“Jesus Christ!” he yells, shaking out his hair like a dog. “And anyway, the _world_ is my _Baywatch_ runway, Eddie my love,” Richie hails, flipping his wet hair behind him. Like Mike, his hair has also grown out since they were kids. His mother used to insist she cut it, saying he looked ‘like an escaped convict’ with his shaggy hair. She would, of course, be drunk when she said this and also when she pulled out the scissors. Richie would whine and argue, but could never get out of it. Last year, he asked Beverly if she would cut it instead. She readily agreed and gave him a haircut that would actually grow out nicely, unlike the very uneven cuts his mother gave him. It did, and he has let it grow to the tops of his shoulders, refusing his mother’s requests to let her cut it, even as it curled with puberty.

They walk over as a group to Terri and ask her to referee for them, seeing as they have an even number of players including Georgie. She agrees with excitement and follows them over to the net that is thankfully still not being used.

They start to pick teams, with Bill and Richie as team captains. Richie demands to be captain because he knows no one would choose him to be their teammate after the disaster that was Chicken. All of them disagree, except Stanley who says, “Probably smart.” Beverly hits his arm lightly and Stanley grins, assuring Richie that he’s kidding.

Bill has first pick and chooses Stanley immediately.

“Of course…” Richie groans. “Of course you pick the most athletic one out of all of us. How will I ever compete? How will my team go on - oh, I know! Eddie!”

“Of course…” Bill repeats, snickering.

“Hey! Eddie is fast as a speeding bullet! You’d better respect!” Richie crows, pointing at Bill with a wagging finger.

“It’s ‘faster than a speeding bullet,’ Rich, but I appreciate the sentiment,” Eddie blushes. Richie hooks his arm around Eddie’s shoulders but says nothing as Bill chooses his next teammate.

“Ben!” he calls out, and Ben smiles widely.

“Really?” he asks, a bit disbelievingly. He is always picked last for gym, has been since he was old enough to participate in the games they play, and he had resigned himself to being last pick now.

“Of course, B-B-Ben. Get over here,” Bill smiles. Ben runs over quickly with a smile bigger than any of them have seen on him since they met him and bumps their hips together lightly when he gets there.

“Okay… Hmm...” Richie ponders, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm…”

“God, Rich, it’s not a college, just pick someone,” Beverly calls out.

“Well, just for that, I’m picking Mikey!” Mike laughs as he jogs over and Beverly cries out.

“Hey! You turd!”

“Just look up, Bevs, I’m sure one of these seagulls would be happy to oblige your request!” Richie grins, self-satisfied, and Beverly groans.

“Gross, Rich…”

“Okay, Bill, you’re up!” Richie calls over to him.

“I’m s-sorry, Beverly…” Bill sighs. “But I think I am required by l-l-law to pick my brother.”

“Yay!” Georgie cheers, running over to his brother and calling over his shoulder, “Sorry, Bev!”

“Aw, it’s okay, little man,” Beverly assures. “Just means I have to shack up with Trashmouth over here.”

“Hey! I resent that, my mouth has been clean as a whistle all day! Just ask Eddie’s mom!” Eddie groans, untangling himself from Richie’s grasp and running out onto the sandy court.

“Beep _beep_ , Richie. God, you can’t shut it for a day about my mom, can you?”

“Our love demands to be shouted from the rooftops, Eds…” Richie sighs, attempting to pinch Eddie’s cheek as he runs by, but Eddie ducks at the last moment.

“Don’t _call_ me that, Richie!” he shrieks.

They start playing and the game is a disaster from the first point scored. Richie is absolutely _flinging_ himself all over the place, trying to save defend their team. It would’ve been fine if he had any sense of direction, but seeing as he doesn’t, he is continuously bumping into Eddie and nearly knocking him over.

“Richie!” Eddie shrieks after the fourth time he’s been barrelled into. “God, stay in your bubble, you moron!”

“How can I help it, Eds?” Richie asks innocently from Eddie’s feet where he’s sprawled in the sand. “You’re magnetic.”

“Oh, shut your mouth, Tozier…” Eddie burns red, looking away. He’s momentarily distracted by Richie’s compliment, so he doesn’t see the ball literally drop right in front of him where he could’ve easily gotten it and gawks in surprise as he watches it bounce away.

“Bill’s team gets that point!” Terri cries, smiling and raising the hand that’s closest to Bill’s side of the net. “That’s 5 to 1!”

“Oh, come on!” Eddie croaks, flapping his arms. “Richie very clearly distracted me! That shouldn’t count!”

“Hey, a point’s a point, Eds…” Stanley shrugs, smirking. “Not our fault you can’t take the heat.”

“Ooh, is Stanley calling me _hot_?” Richie speculates, standing up and brushing the sand off his stomach. “And by that logic, is Stanley saying that _Eddie_ thinks I’m hot?!”

“Not even in your dreams, Tozier,” Stanley responds, voice flat.

“Aw, damn, I was looking forward to dreaming about you tonight…” Richie sighs.

“Dream on. Literally.”

“Alright, boys, c’mon, let’s set up for the next round…” Beverly grumbles behind Eddie and Richie. As they do, Eddie hisses at Richie.

“You better not be the reason we lose, _captain_.”

“Ooh, is that a competitive side I spy, Eddie Spaghetti?” Richie laughs.

“You bet your ass it is, and I’m absolutely _not_ letting your clumsy noodle legs ruin my chances of winning.”

“Don’t you mean _our_ chances, Eddie?” Mike questions from behind them.

“Of course I do, Mike,” Eddie assures, turning around to smile sweetly at him.

“Why are you nice to _Mikey_ but not _me_ , Eddie?” Richie whines pleadingly.

“Because you are an absolute bother, Richie,” Eddie sighs. Richie opens his mouth to retort, but Stanley cuts him off.

“Are you two ready to play? Or are you gonna spend the whole day yapping?” he asks, the ball in his hands, ready to strike.

“We’re ready…” Eddie blushes, pointing at Richie. “Stay over there!”

“Yes, sir!” Richie salutes.

He doesn’t, and Eddie is literally ready to pull his hair out when Beverly saves them, four missed points later. “Terri, you have to sub in for Richie before Eddie kills him! Or flops himself to death! You have to save our team!”

“Oh, I don’t know about that…” Terri giggles, flapping her hands.

“C’mon, Terri, _please_?” Eddie begs. “We’re nothing without you!”

“Okay, I feel like that’s not explicitly true…” Richie grumbles. “I _am_ the team captain… But, yeah, Terri, you should play! I’ll gladly step out and cheat for us if it means you get to tear it up!”

“You will do no such thing, young man!” Terri scolds and Stanley and Bill laugh loudly at Richie’s blush and downcast gaze.

“Sorry, Mrs. Denbrough…” Richie says in a lilting voice, kicking at the sand. “I won’t cheat, I promise. But you definitely should play! It’s a lot of fun, I swear.”

“Yeah, and it’ll be even more fun for the rest of us when he _doesn’t_ play,” Eddie says, pointedly staring at Richie.

“Okay, everyone quit trashing the trashmouth…” Richie says, waving Terri over to take his spot. When she steps out into the playing field, everyone cheers loudly.

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to play against both my boys…” Terri says, worrying at her lip. “I’m a bit biased.”

“Mommy, you _gotta_ play! Me and Billy wanna kick your butt!” Georgie squeals, laughing when Bill pokes at his side.

“Hey, that’s not very nice, Georgie,” Bill admonishes. “You’ve gotta be r-respectful to mommy.”

“Sorry, Billy…” Georgie says in a tone nearly identical to Richie’s when he was being admonished by Terri.

“Who else do you think deserves an apology?” Bill asks, looking over at their mother who has her hands on her hips and a small smile playing on her lips.

“Mommy…” Georgie sighs. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Let’s just get playing!” Terri says excitedly and everyone cheers again. Georgie perks up, almost entirely forgetting why he was upset before and focusing solely on the excitement he feels that he gets to play against his mother.

Terri Denbrough, as it turns out, is incredible at beach volleyball.

“Terri!” Mike cries after her seventh save in a row, laughter in his voice. “Who knew you were such a beast?”

“Not me!” Terri pants, letting Eddie take the next hit. When it goes over, Bill runs to save it but misses by an inch.

“Aw, man!” he cries, careful not to swear in front of both his little brother and his mother.

“Nice job, Eds!” Richie calls. “That makes you guys all tied up, yessiree!”

“What?!” Stanley shouts, whipping his head to Richie. “That can’t be accurate!”

“Terri kept very good score here, Stanley. I’m merely her protege, taking over her life’s work when she was pulled to a higher calling. Do you disagree with the master, Staniel? Hmm?” Richie questions, leaning in towards him and raising his eyebrow dramatically.

“I guess not…” Stanley sighs. “Fine.”

“Alright, how about the next point wins, huh, guys?” Richie asks, to a mixture of groans and assents.

“That feels unfair, R-Rich,” Bill says, frowning.

“I think it sounds fun, Billy!” Georgie says with a smile. “Sudden death! That’s what the games at the arcade always say.”

“A-Alright. If Georgie thinks it’s o-o-okay…” Bill aquieces.

“Alright, fellas. Hold onto your bathing suits, because it’s about to get exciting up on this beach!” Richie cries in a sports announcer Voice. “Eddie 'The Kid' Kaspbrak seems to be taking his sweet time setting up, folks. What _is_ he thinking? Probably how sexy the announcer’s voice is, am I right, folks?”

“Richie,” Eddie grits out, holding the volleyball, ready to strike. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to aim this ball right at your face.”

Richie pauses. “We’ll be taking a short break, folks, stay with us while we go to commercial.”

“Thank you.” Eddie turns back to the net and breathes out slowly. _This is it, Kaspbrak,_ he thinks. _Don’t fuck it up._ He knows he’s probably taking this game far more seriously than anybody else, but Richie was right, as much as Eddie hates to ever admit those words: he is _extremely_ competitive. It’s the reason why he never fought his mother very hard on not letting him join the sports teams at school. He’s always been interested in track and, much more embarrassingly to him, cheerleading, but he’s never pursued it for similar reasons that Stanley doesn’t try out for the baseball team: the kids in their school suck _balls._ Not only are they cruel and people Eddie definitely does not want to be associated with, but he knows he could out-run any of them any day of the week.

Eddie nods to himself and then strikes the ball over the net. Stanley deflects it easily and it sails back over, flying above Eddie’s head and going to Beverly who has to run a bit to hit it, but she does. It goes back to the other side and Bill manages to send it back over. Mike hits it from behind Terri, but doesn’t manage to send it over and he calls out to Terri to save it. She jumps and slides in the sand, just barely hitting it by the skin of her teeth. Richie’s team all cheer as it goes back over the net. It sails over Bill’s head and Georgie steels himself and hits it as hard as he can. It goes over the net and they watch as Terri attempts to send it back over, but it bounces out of bounds before it lands over the net.

Bill’s team erupts in wild cheers as they all swarm Georgie.

“Well, would ya look at that, folks? An incredible save by Mr. Georgie 'The Rogue' Denbrough! And the crowd goes wild!” Richie laughs, the announcer Voice slipping as he watches Ben hoist Georgie into the air and set him on both Bill and Stanley’s shoulders. Ben holds him up from behind as they bounce him around, parading him over to the other side. Everyone on Richie’s team, including Eddie, is smiling widely at the sight. He doesn't much mind losing if it gets Georgie smiling like that.

“Georgie! Georgie! Georgie!” Bill’s team all cheer, and Richie’s team joins in. Terri thinks she’s never seen her youngest son look so happy or so proud in his entire life and it’s so heartwarming that she entirely forgets about losing. Richie joins them on the field and jostles Georgie’s feet where they hang limp against Bill and Stanley’s shoulders.

“You did it, little man! You won!” Georgie’s smile grows even bigger, the gaps in his teeth visible from where he’s lost a few, and even though it’s gummy and a bit cheesy, Richie thinks it’s just about the best thing he’s ever seen.

“Well, Georgie, I think the winner of beach volleyball gets to pick the next activity,” Beverly says with a grin. “Whaddya say?”

“I say yes!” Georgie laughs. “I say…” He pauses, looking around. He spots a boat in the water and points at excitedly. “Billy! Look! A boat!”

“Yeah, Georgie, there’s lots of boats in the water. You wanna try spotting them? See if you can n-name a few?” Bill asks, looking up at him. Georgie’s head is blocking the light from the sun and it casts a shadow over Bill, enabling him to look at his brother clearly. Georgie’s excitement is infectious and Bill smiles up at him.

“Yeah!” Georgie cries, wiggling around a bit. Ben tightens his hold on his back and Bill and Stanley grip his knees a bit harder. Georgie fails to notice, too wrapped up in the impending joy he’s sure is coming. “So cool!”

They set Georgie down and head to the sand dunes. Terri tells them she’s going to get back to her book and they all wave goodbye. They sit together on a bundle of rocks, Georgie sitting between Stanley and Bill. As Georgie begins squinting out at the ocean, Richie sees Eddie struggling to find a place to sit.

“C’mere, Eds, there’s a comfortable spot right here in front of me.” Richie points to the sand in front of the small, flat rock he’s perched on. He smiles up at Eddie who is staring at him with an inscrutable look on his face. “Has your name on it and everything.”

Richie then draws a lowercase _e_ in the sand in the spot he just pointed to and Eddie laughs, shaking his head and sitting down right on top of it in between Richie’s open legs. Eddie leans back against the rock and scans the ocean for a long moment. He tips his head back and looks up at Richie who he finds already looking back at him.

“You know I was jokin’ around about the stuff I said on the volleyball court, right?” Eddie questions, softly enough for only Richie to hear. Richie smiles at him, fond and gentle, and nods, running a hand through Eddie’s hair. The movement is quick enough to still be considered friendly. It looks like a light tousle to the untrained eye. But he lingers just long enough to make Eddie wonder.

“I do, Eds. Thanks for clarifying, though.” Eddie nods back and looks back out at the ocean. After a minute relative of silence over the group, he leans his head on Richie’s left knee where he’s sandwiched between them. Richie looks down sharply and then smiles, wide and grateful. He takes his chances and places his hand back in Eddie’s hair. Eddie doesn’t move at all, doesn’t pull away or lean further into his touch, and Richie takes that as consent. He doesn’t move his fingers, but Eddie feels the comfort in his touch regardless.

When Richie glances over to his left, he sees Beverly and Mike’s heads both on Ben’s shoulders. They all look so calm, so peaceful. He thinks his friends deserve to always feel like that. Richie smiles as he looks overhead and watches as flock of four seagulls fly in the air and then land closeby. Richie’s smile grows as he watches them hunt for food, so comfortable around the patrons of the beach. He hopes to one day be that comfortable around people.

Richie often feels like he’s a different breed than the rest of the population around him. He thinks perhaps the title of Loser fits him better than even Human does. As he looks over at Stanley and Bill pointing out boats for Georgie, he thinks maybe that title fits all seven of them perfectly. _The Losers,_ Richie thinks. _I like that._

 

Mike Hanlon wears a rashguard to the beach. He doesn’t want prying eyes burning holes through his scars. His friends know this. Ben was alerted of this by a quiet Mike in the car on the way there. Georgie Denbrough, however, does _not_ know this.

He has kept a quiet mouth the entire day about this, because Georgie was taught by his parents and Bill that it isn’t polite to ask questions about people’s clothes (even Richie, who wears very funky clothes that Georgie wants to know why he wears very badly). So, Georgie doesn’t ask.

But his curiosity is piqued once again when Mike begins doing push-ups in the sand while everyone is lazes on the rocks in the late afternoon sun and he asks if Georgie will sit on his back to make it harder. Georgie excitedly hops up onto Mike’s back while Bill counts off beside him with a laugh. Georgie is tracing the soft dark blue of the rashguard when he comes up to the back of Mike’s neck and he frowns deeply with what he sees, tracing that skin lightly, too.

“Mikey, you have boo-boos!” Bill looks hurriedly between Georgie and Mike, trying to see if he’s upset.

 _“Georgie…”_ Bill admonishes. Georgie jumps a bit at the sternness in his brother’s voice and is quieted by it as Mike begins to chuckle.

“S’okay, Big Bill… He’s just a little kid.” He mutters this so Georgie doesn’t hear, knowing he would absolutely adamantly object to being called ‘little’. Mike settles into the warm, soft sand and turns his head to look at the boy on his back. “Yeah, I do, buddy. But I’m okay. They’re better now, just some scars.”

“Oh.” Georgie considers this and then touches his forehead. “I have a scar on my head from when I was running on the sidewalk and I accidentally hit a sign. Did you bleed?”

Mike’s breath hitches and gets caught in his chest. Bill can hear it over the crashing waves in the distance and he picks Georgie up off of Mike’s back and settles him in his own lap. Before he can cut in though, Mike sits up cross-legged and begins speaking to Georgie, slowly and steadily, smooth and deep, soothing and kind, as he almost always does.

“These scars are a little bit different than yours, buddy. These are called burns. I got them from fire.” Georgie’s eyes widen.

“Really?” Georgie breathes. He looks absolutely crestfallen. “That sounds a lot more scary than when I hit my head.”

“It was really scary, Georgie…” Mike says. He looks to Bill for strength, and Bill’s smile is small and comforting, eyes strong and calming, nod comforting and uplifting. Bill Denbrough is all of their pillars, their solace, their shelter. Mike gives him a shaky smile in return and then looks back to Georgie. “But I’m okay now.”

“Are you sure?” Georgie asks. Mike looks so sad and Georgie doesn’t know what to do. So he does what his mom always does when he’s sad or gets hurt: he takes Mike’s hand. Mike looks down at their joined hands and a tear slips down his cheek. Tears well up in Bill’s eyes as well, but he stays quiet and lets his brother and one of his favorite people on earth have their moment. Mike’s smile turns more watery for a moment and then grows stronger the longer he holds Georgie’s hand. He looks back up at him. He nods and smiles.

“Yeah. I think I am.”

 

“I just think it’s unfair.”

“We know you do, Eddie.”

“Richie and I were the ones to ride in the back the last time! We should get to sit in the front this time!” Eddie whines. They’re all shoving their sandy beach supplies back in the van as the sun sits golden on the horizon. This is Eddie’s favorite time of day: golden hour. It turns everything a beautiful shade of bright yellow and makes people’s skin seem to glow. It makes the world look like a painting. But he can’t even enjoy it because he has to sit in the trunk _again_.

“It’s sweet you’re looking out for me, Eds,” Richie winks. Eddie scoffs, crosses his arms and rolls his eyes.

“I’m not. I’m looking out for my own hide. I don’t care if you sit in the back or not. In fact, I hope you rot back there and die there in a pile of sand.” Richie laughs.

“Forward my mail, won’t you, darlin’?” he drawls in a southern accent. Eddie’s cheeks burn as he continues to pout.

“You’re the smallest, Eddie, and Richie volunteered. God knows why,” Ben says, sliding the side door shut once the supplies, Beverly, Georgie and Bill are all crammed in the bench seat in the back. Ben and Mike hop in the bucket seats in the middle while Stanley goes over the checklist one last time before coming around to the back where Eddie is still standing and staring at Richie who is trying to beckon him into the back with him.

“Eddie,” Stanley admonishes with exhaustion coloring his tone. “We’re all tired. Please just get in the back or we’re leaving you here.”

Eddie huffs. “Fine. But I won’t be happy about it.”

“Sure,” Stanley says placatingly, rounding the van as Eddie climbs in. Richie smiles at him nervously.

“Sorry, Spaghetti. I know I’m not the best company…” Eddie furrows his brow in confusion.

“That’s not the reason I didn’t wanna be back here, moron. I just wanna stretch my legs,” Eddie explains, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Oh,” Richie says, voice small and considering. The car begins to move and Terri slips The Beach Boys’ _Pet Sounds_ into the cassette player, crowing that The Beach Boys feel very apt after the day they’ve had. Everyone slips into their own worlds and conversations, the two boys in the back going ignored. Eddie looks out the back window as the world begins to fly by and Richie starts to shuffle around, maneuvering himself so that his legs are spread wide. Eddie looks over with a puzzled expression.

“What are you _doing_?”

“Making room,” Richie explains before grabbing at Eddie’s t-shirt and reeling him into his space. Eddie goes more willingly than he would like to admit, pliant in Richie’s grasp, and lets Richie shift him until they’re both comfortable. Eddie is now laying with his back to Richie’s front and Richie’s arms are gently resting on his chest.

“There,” Richie says, eyes slipping closed. “Now you can relax and stretch those tiny legs all you want.”

“My legs aren’t tiny…” Eddie grumbles, but it comes out weak and half-hearted. They haven’t cuddled like this since age 12. Eddie remembers the last time they did. It was a few weeks after he had realized that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t like _nobody_ and maybe liked _boys_ instead. He didn’t admit it consciously, wouldn’t come to do that for years. But he and the Losers had been watching a movie with the newly added Beverly, and he and Richie were curled up in the La-Z-Boy in Bill’s living room. Nobody was paying them any mind - hell, _Richie_ was barely paying him any mind; he was more concerned about _Five Nights At Freddy’s_ than he was about his leg pressed between Eddie’s thighs, his head curled in the crux of Eddie’s neck, his hair tickling Eddie’s skin. Eddie felt like he burned in every single placed his skin touched Richie’s.

That was the last time he and Richie held each other like that - until now.

Eddie found himself strangely comforted by Richie’s touch, the mindless chatter of his friends, the sounds of the car beneath them, the song playing in the background. Eddie recognizes it as he drifts in and out of sleep, and he thinks he can hear Richie humming it under his breath before he falls asleep entirely.

 _Maybe if we think, and wish, and hope, and pray, it might come true_  
_Baby, then there wouldn't be a single thing we couldn't do_  
_We could be married  
And then we'd be happy_

“Hey, Rich?” Mike calls over his shoulder a few minutes later. Richie shushes him violently, pointing down to Eddie’s sleeping form. Mike’s face softens, as does his tone, before continuing. “How did you even know about _Baywatch_?”

“Oh, my dumb sister watches it all the time,” Richie scoffs.

“That’s not true, Richie!” Terri shouts, affronted. “We watch it together all the time! Did you forget about our Hasselhoff drool sessions? I’m hurt!”

Richie groans and hides his face in Eddie’s hair as his friends laugh around him. “Terri, you blew my cover!” he groans.

“Oh! I’m sorry, sweetie…” she says, frowning in the rear view mirror, trying to catch a glimpse of Richie.

“It’s alright, Terri, we definitely needed to know that,” Stanley says, touching her arm lightly.

“Richie, are you _serious_? You watch _Baywatch_ with Bill’s mom? When do you even have time to _do_ that? You’re _always with us_ ,” Beverly chokes out around a laugh.

“Shh, you’ll wake the baby,” Richie says, petting Eddie’s hair lightly.

“‘M not a baby…” Eddie grumbles. He doesn’t move from Richie’s arms or even react to the news that Richie _watches Baywatch_.

“Eds, any reaction?” Bill prompts with a giggle. “This is big n-news, I’d think you’d be the first to jump on a chance to t-t-tool on Richie.”

“Comfy,” Eddie explains simply, pushing his face further into Richie’s chest, breathing in the scent of Richie’s fabric softener and the salt of the ocean, the sand, their friends. Richie brushes his thumb over Eddie’s arm lightly where it’s resting, undetected by their friends.

“Don’t pressure him into tooling on me, Bill. I’ve got enough of that coming from all sides - let me have the back as a place of solace.”

Bill laughs and turns back. “Wh-Whatever you say, Rich.”

“ _Baywatch_ isn’t even that bad, guys. Ask Terri,” Richie sniffs.

“Yeah!” Terri pipes. “Dave certainly is eye candy…”

 _“Mom!”_ Bill shrieks. Everyone laughs. “You’re _married!_ ”

“I’m allowed to window shop!” Terri defends hotly. Bill leans up and covers Georgie’s ears where he’s absorbed in his Clifford book. The boy looks up.

“What, Billy? Are we playing a game? I Spy?” Georgie asks excitedly.

“ _Y_ _es_ , Georgie. We are _absolutely_ playing I Spy,” Bill says quickly. They devolve into a game of I Spy for a while and Eddie falls back into a state of unconsciousness. He thinks he can hear Richie’s soft voice ghosting along the edges of his synapses halfway through a dream of trying to sail away on a small boat in a large, open ocean, but he’s not certain until the song cuts through.

 _I may not always love you_  
_But long as there are stars above you_  
_You never need to doubt it_  
_I'll make you so sure about it_  
_God only knows what I'd be without you_

Eddie wakes up completely to one of Richie’s hands in his hair and the other trailing along his arm slowly but he doesn’t dare move, tries to keep his breathing as even as possible. He’s terrified to ruin this moment of softness, terrified that he’s still dreaming. Perhaps he’s below deck of the dream-boat in Richie’s arms - it wouldn’t be the first time. He’s had dreams like this before; they’re far more shameful than any other dreams he’s ever had. As Richie sings softly to him, crooning low into his ear only because he thinks he’s asleep, Eddie knows he likes Richie. He accepts this fact like a weighted blanket he knows he will always have to carry with him in every waking conversation from now on. He _does_ wish he were dreaming for a moment, that this bliss could be fake, because then he wouldn’t have to give it up when Terri puts the car in park and go back to pretending he’s disgusted by everything Richie does, everything he is.

The song is coming to a soft close and Eddie desperately wishes this car ride would never end, that he’d never have to leave Richie’s arms, that he’d never have to leave his friends, that he’d never have to go home. His mother wouldn’t inspect every inch of his body for sunburn and he could watch movies until the sun came up with his friends. He’d throw popcorn into Beverly’s mouth from across the room and he could cuddle like this with Richie in Bill’s La-Z-Boy like they did when they were children and they could watch the seasons change from the safety of each other’s arms. Eddie knows that is a dream sweeter than any his subconsciousness could ever come up with.

Richie smiles against his ear as Eddie’s breathing quickens out of the sheer panic of not being able to merge the life he wants to live and the life he has to live. Richie continues singing even though he knows Eddie is awake, and that is when Eddie becomes certain more than anything else in this stupid world that Richie Tozier is his best friend on earth. He’s falling for his best friend. And he thinks he could’ve never chosen a better person to fall for.

 _If you should ever leave me_  
_Though life would still go on, believe me_  
_The world could show nothing to me_  
_So what good would livin' do me_ _  
God only knows what I'd be without you…_


	2. Fall, 1991

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fall holidays are upon the club, and they get crunk and also sad, sometimes at the same time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! 
> 
> please note the added tags! there are a few OCs in this chapter, all related to eddie and richie! richie's older sister, jess, and eddie's three aunts. we also talk about eddie's father and his passing, and he is also an OC because we a) changed his name and b) gave him a personality. we also talk about the passing of beverly's father, which is the same as in the movie, but it's not... as explicitly detailed here. 
> 
> things are heating up! oooh! 
> 
> enjoy! <3

As soon as Terri Denbrough drops Bill, Beverly, Richie and Georgie off at Bassey Park, the latter two immediately take off for the neat leaf pile underneath the large oak tree on the North end. Bill lets out a loud laugh and he and Beverly amble over to where they’ve already jumped in.

“You guys are l-lucky Eddie isn’t here yet - he’d be on your tails about tick repellent…” Bill chides where he watches them jumping in and out of the pile, continuously submerging themselves and then coming up for air with raucous giggles.

“Georgie! Let’s make the pile really big again and then I’ll throw you in!” Richie says excitedly. “It’ll be great!”

“Yeah!” Georgie cries.

“No!” Beverly and Bill shout at once.

“Majority rules!” Richie says, climbing out and remaking the pile.

“You jag, the numbers are even!” Beverly accuses, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Big personality over here, I always count for two people,” Richie explains with an air of false importance. Bill stifles a laugh and Beverly elbows him in the gut.

“Ow! Bev!” he whines, cupping his ribs.

“You deserved it. Everyone knows you always take my side in matters of Beverly vs. Richie,” she sniffs.

“I took no sides!” Bill insists.

“Lies…” Beverly hisses as Richie picks Georgie up and begins swinging him towards the pile.

“On three!” Richie says. “One… Two…”

 _“Three!”_ they both yell together and Georgie goes flying perfectly square into the middle of the leaves. There’s a terrified breath held when Georgie doesn’t emerge for a moment, but then they hear him let out the loudest giggle any of them have ever heard and he pops out, leaves caught in his hair and wool sweater.

“Again!”

“Oh, I think once was enough, Georgie…” Bill says, trying to caution Richie away from doing to again with his eyes. _Precious cargo_ , he mouths, eyes darting to where Georgie is staring up at Richie with wide, imploring eyes and a pout that Richie isn’t 100% sure he can say no to.

Richie nods reluctantly and then turns to Georgie with a big smile. “Hey, buddy, is that Stan Lee I see coming up Canal Street?” Richie points up the street to where Stanley is riding his bike down the street to meet the group. They were expecting Eddie to be first to the park, considering his house is only a few blocks down on the same street as the Town Center, but they suppose he got held up, as Stanley is whizzing down the street at full speed towards them. Georgie squeals and waves excitedly, running across the park to greet him.

“Hi, Stanny!” he shouts, skidding to a stop so he doesn’t barrell into Stanley’s bicycle.

“Hey, little man,” he laughs, leaning down to give Georgie a one-armed hug while he holds up his bike before locking it in the bike rack. “How long have you guys been here? You’ve already got leaves stuck in your sweater.”

“Battle scars,” Bill says as he walks up to them with a smile. Stanley smiles back. “Hey, pal.”

“Hey, Bill. Who else is here?”

“Beverly and Richie are causing trouble by the swings,” he says, pointing to where their friends are having a contest to see who can swing the highest. They’re both screaming that the other is absolutely _not_ winning - Beverly is obviously swinging higher. Bill chuckles and looks back to Stanley. “Mike should be here soon - he’s coming from the farm. Not sure where Eddie is, I thought he’d be here first.”

Stanley hums and frowns. He looks down the street, as if he could see Eddie’s house from the park, knowing full well that he cannot. His frown deepens. “Hope he’s alright.”

“I’m sure he is. Probably got held up with Mrs. Kaspbrak,” Bill reasons. Stanley nods curtly, but his frown doesn’t slip away until Georgie pulls on his shirt.

“Hey, Stanny, will you come push me on the swings? I wanna beat Richie!” Stanley laughs lightly.

“That is a very valiant goal, Georgie Denbrough.”

 

When Eddie finally shows up, Richie is panting his way through his fourth losing battle on the swingset.

“Took ya long enough, Eds!” he shouts as Eddie ditches his bike by the bike rack, foregoing tying it up, and running up to where his friends are swinging. He doesn’t say anything until he’s reached the group and taken three consecutive pulls from his inhaler. Everyone frowns and Bill moves closer, tucking him into his side while his heaving breaths slow.

“Hey.”

Richie nods. “Simple, but effective.”

“Where’ve you b-been, Eds?” Bill asks, voice soft as he tries to calm Eddie down.

“Ma, she… she said it was too cold to hang out outside… Had to sneak out… Went around the back way, avoided Main, so no one would see me biking…”

“Eds! You snuck out? You’re a regular James Bond!” Richie says in the air, hopping off on the upswing. He walks over and grips Eddie’s shoulder. He ducks his head, meets Eddie’s eyes and speaks quietly enough so that only Eddie and Bill can hear him. “Y’alright, Eddie? Your ma can be a bit of a prick sometimes…”

Eddie snorts, shrugging the shoulder that Richie still has his hand on. “Yeah, but… It’s fine. I’m here now.”

Eddie smiles and Richie smiles back. Bill doesn’t feel as much of a voyeur as a wallflower.

“Look, Billy!” Georgie gasps suddenly, not paying much attention to Eddie’s arrival, and pointing to the opposite side of the park. He’s taken off running before Bill’s brain can catch up. “Slide!”

Georgie runs up to it and begins climbing the steps to the large slide quickly, but as soon as he gets to the top and looks down, he feels paralyzed with fear.

“Billy?” he calls out, voice high with nerves. Bill jogs over and waves the rest of the group to where he’s waiting for Georgie at the bottom of the slide.

“Hey, Georgie. How ya doin’?” Georgie shakes his head with a pout.

“Can’t come down.”

“Oh, well, that’s not true,” Bill frowns. “You’re the bravest boy in the world.”

“Really?” he asks, still white-knuckling the railings on either side of him. Richie makes it over to him first and immediately understands what’s happened.

“Hey, pal! Look at you! Like Batman up in his tower!” he says, putting on a Batman Voice.

“Wow, yeah…” Georgie breathes, looking up and around before quickly deciding that’s too scary and back at his friends. “Does Batman have a slide?”

“Actually, he does, I think… Eds, does Batman have a slide?” Richie asks Eddie as he runs up to the scene at top speed with the rest of the group hot on his heels. Eddie nods emphatically.

“Yeah, he does! To get to the Batmobile. You gonna ride on Billy’s shoulders when you get down, Georgie?” Eddie prompts with a sweet smile. Georgie nods tentatively.

“Uh-huh…”

“C’mon, Georgie! We won’t let anything happen to you, sweet boy!” Beverly shouts with a smile.

“You’ve got this, Georgie,” Stanley says. Bill nods and Georgie squares his shoulders.

“I’m brave… I’m brave…” he whispers to himself. He sits on the top of the tall metal slide and they all countdown from five. Georgie pushes off a few counts after zero and they all cheer. Beverly and Bill catch him at the bottom before his shoes hit the sand and they all let out loud whoops.

“Good job, Georgie!” Beverly coos, kissing his sandy blond hair. He giggles excitedly.

“Thanks, guys… I know it’s lame for an six year old to be afraid of heights, but…”

“Hey,” Mike says, voice intense and quiet, “we’re all afraid of something, Georgie.”

“Yeah!” Richie caws. “Like me! I’m afraid of lots of things!”

 _“Really?”_ Georgie asks in disbelief. He always assumed Richie was the bravest person in the world - he couldn’t possibly be afraid of anything.

“Yeah! Werewolves… Clowns… Lots of other things, too…” Richie says, shuddering dramatically. “Stuff in this world can be spooky, Georgie. It’s okay to be scared.”

“You all get scared?” Everyone nods. “So it’s okay for me to get scared, too, even though I’m big now?”

“Absolutely, big guy,” Ben says with a kind smile, squeezing his shoulder. “Everyone is afraid sometimes. If someone says they aren’t, they’re just trying to seem more impressive than they are. But it’s brave to be afraid.”

“It _is_?” Georgie questions. This, he has doubts about.

“Yeah, buddy,” Bill says, sitting on the edge of the slide and pulling Georgie in his lap. “Being brave isn’t about the a-ab-absence of fear, but the overcoming it.”

Georgie isn’t sure he understands, but he nods anyway because when Bill says it, it makes Georgie _want_ to believe it. They all smile at him and Bill pookes him in the stomach. Georgie giggles and swats him away.

“You wanna ride on my shoulders over to the monkey bars? I think I heard Be-Beverly say something about a contest.” Georgie nods excitedly.

“Yeah, yeah! You’re toast, Beverly!” Beverly laughs.

“You’re on, Georgie!” Bill hoists Georgie up on the slide where he was just sitting and kneels in the dirt.

“Up you go…” Georgie climbs up on Bill’s shoulders and Beverly stabilizes him from the back when he threatens to tip over. Bill shoots her a grateful smile before shouting, “Hi-yo, Silver, _away!”_ and running off. They all laugh, Beverly shaking her head fondly, and follow him over to the monkey bars.

Georgie insists on racing someone on the monkey bars and Beverly chooses to be his partner, hailing that she’s _queen_ of the monkey bars. Mike holds Georgie around the waist and Richie counts down from five. When he gets to one, he pretends to wave a flag and they’re off. It’s a close race, but Georgie ends up beating Beverly by two rungs.

“Aw, man!” she yells, finishing the race even though she’d already lost. She drops down and Georgie smiles at her triumphantly as Mike lowers him to the ground.

“Sorry, Beverly, looks like I beat you fair and square!”

“Looks like you did, Georgie…” she coos, pinching his cheek.

“Wow, guys, look what I found!” Ben calls from the blacktop 30 feet away. They look over and squint to see Ben waving a few pieces of chalk. “We can break ‘em up and draw! Come on!”

They all run over and Beverly immediately grabs a piece of all three of the colors that Ben found. She and Bill start drawing a dragon together while Richie walks around and demands alterations to the drawings because he can’t draw himself. Richie asks for a hat on the dragon and they give him a top hat and a cane. He asks to be involved in the family portrait Georgie is sketching and he adds him gleefully beside Bill. Richie smiles down at the drawing, happy to see that they’re all holding hands. He leans down and draws a thought bubble over the dog’s head that Mike’s drawing and etches a T-bone steak with a question mark inside it. Mike laughs loudly. He asks Stanley to draw the bird he’s making shitting and Stanley tells him that turtle doves are too pure for his crassness and refuses, ducking to hide his smile in his shoulder. Ben is going around writing captions in his chicken scratch for each piece of art. Bill and Beverly’s is his favorite: _The Dragon as: A Traveling Magician._ They draw a rabbit sitting on top of the hat after that.

Richie sits beside Eddie and watches him stare at the piece of blue chalk on the ground, as if he’s willing it to disappear.

“What’s up, Eds?”

“S’dirty,” is all he responds with.

“Hm. Not really. It’s pretty. Here, lemme show you something.” He takes the chalk and Eddie’s wrist, palm up, and carefully traces the lines etched into Eddie’s palm with the blue chalk. He goes up each finger with a delicate touch that Eddie didn’t know Richie was capable of. Richie Tozier is surprising him more and more these days. He goes up the lines in each finger until his whole hand is traced in a bright sky blue. Richie looks up at Eddie through his eyelashes and smiles.

“See? Some dirty things can be pretty.” Eddie hums and takes the chalk from Richie’s loose grip and, heart pounding and hands shaking, does the same thing to Richie’s hand. When he’s done, he straightens his back, breathes out slowly and makes eye contact with Richie. He smiles and Richie smiles back.

“Some pretty things can be dirty, too.”

Off to the side, Beverly and Bill are still creating their masterpiece.

“Do you think pink fire will be too concept or make sense for red?” Beverly wonders with pursed lips, gnawing at the inside of her cheek.

“I think it’s b-b-both, honestly…” Bill says. Beverly adds a little purple flower to the top hat on the dragon’s head and Bill smiles.

“You know, I miss drawing sometimes…” she says softly. Bill looks over at her and cocks his head.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I drew a lot before… before he died. Played piano, too. And now I just don’t anymore. I’m not sure why.” She is sure why, she’s sure that she feels like her father stole all the parts of her that make her human and buried them along with his bones six feet underground in a cemetery she’s never stepped foot in. “I miss it, though. I really…”

She trails off, unsure of what to say when there’s so many people around. She doesn’t feel comfortable yet discussing her father with everyone potentially listening, even in the most vague sense. She’s talked about him with Bill and Eddie in private before, but never to the whole group, and never in any sort of specific detail. They don’t know about his hands. They don’t know why she wore spanx everyday, even while she slept. They don’t know why she still wears the old golden key to her and her father’s old apartment around her neck along with the one she shares with her aunt. They don’t know details. She doesn’t want them to. She’s afraid if her friends know what she really went through, what she had to fight like hell to become and to not become, they might look at her differently.

Fear, pity, confusion, denial, Beverly has seen it all. She saw fear from her mother when she left them at age seven without ever looking back. She saw denial from her grandmother before she died. She saw it from even Bill and Eddie in smaller doses. With her friends, it was easier to chew. Bill was confusion. He couldn’t comprehend how a parent could be so senselessly cruel and horrific to their own child. But Eddie understood a bit more, has known the hand of parental abuse, though in a much different form, and his was pity. Beverly loves Eddie Kaspbrak more than she could ever quantify, more than she can understand logically or form in words - he’s her brother - but pity was far worse than confusion, even if it was only for a brief, albeit concentrated moment. Pity was misunderstanding the very simple fact that Beverly does not regret killing her father. She refuses to. The courts ruled it as self defense and so she did, too. With the help of her therapist who she’s been seeing every week since she was 13, she has come to terms with the fact that what she did was her acting in the interest of her safety. She doesn’t regret it. She can’t. But pity makes it hard to remember that sometimes.

She looks over at Bill and sees a boy. Just a boy. A kind boy, a gentle boy, a nervous boy, a brave boy, but just a boy. He is not a victim or a murderer. He is just a boy, one free from the labels therapy and the law have forced on her. She doesn’t want to be a victim or a murderer. She just wants to be a girl drawing a dragon with a boy.

So for the briefest moment, she pretends like this is her life - that she is not going through the motions to try to pretend to be strong and unbroken and whole. She is a girl named Beverly Marsh who is sitting beside a boy named Bill Denbrough. And for that brief moment, untouched by fear, pity, confusion or denial, Beverly Marsh is whole. She is unmarred and she is unbreakable and she is happy. She’s whole.

Bill looks over and he smiles at her. He says, “Maybe you should draw more,” and she thinks that maybe, just maybe, she was always whole.

 

Richie finds a mostly flat basketball that had rolled away from the court by the river when he gets bored and wanders off, and from there, it’s all over.

“How are we gonna split up teams?” Richie asks, dribbling (read: slapping) the ball with a flat palm. He isn’t looking at any of his friends, but rather staring intently at the ball so it doesn’t get away from him. “Obviously I’m going to be one of the team captains. Because I’m the best.”

“Oh, you are, are you?” Stanley laughs. (It’s more of a scoff than a laugh, but it gets the point across.)

“It’s that obvious?” Richie boasts, queuing up to shoot at the net-less hoop. He misses the backboard entirely and it goes sailing towards the river. “Nothing but net!” he cries as Eddie sighs sharply and runs to go fetch it. When he comes back, Richie reaches for it, but Eddie holds it out of his reach.

“No. You’re terrible. Full stop.”

“Aw, c’mon, Spaghetti! Don’t be mean!” he whines, grabbing for the ball that Eddie holds out of his reach once more.

“I’m not being mean…” Eddie mumbles, looking away. Richie stops moving along with him. Suddenly, a mischievous grin comes upon Eddie’s face. “I’m being truthful.”

“Oh, you little -- !” Eddie laughs as Richie chases him around the court. Richie catches up to him when Eddie trips over his shoelace. Richie catches him around the waist and then hoists him up over his shoulder.

 _“Hey!_ Put me _down!”_ Eddie cries, thrashing and trying desperately to hide the laughter in his voice. It fails and Richie brings him over to where the group is standing in a line, arms all crossed, unamused - all save for Georgie, who is pointing up at where Eddie is kicking his legs.

“Hey, Daddy does that with me sometimes!” he giggles. Richie’s eyes widen.

 _“Well.”_ He immediately puts Eddie down. Eddie is blushing as he takes two steps away from Richie, grumbling nonsensically. Richie’s cheeks are also a light shade of pink, but _this_ is a surprise. None of them remember the last time Richie Tozier was actually _embarrassed_ by something. They feel a mixture of pity and amusement.

“Okay! Time to play now?” Beverly asks, holding out her hands for the ball. Eddie tosses it over to her and she catches it easily. “Bill, you wanna be the other team captain?”

“Hey!” Richie cries, the original pallor of his skin returning. “Bill is just as bad at basketball as me!”

“Be nice!” Georgie says scoldingly, wagging his finger at Richie with a stern expression on his face.

“Sorry…” Richie mumbles. “I didn’t mean to be mean… I just mean that Bill is on… the same level of skill as I am! That’s not mean, right, Georgie?!”

Georgie thinks on this for a moment before nodding decisively. “Not mean.”

“See?! I’m not mean!” Richie cheers. He looks at Bill with moony eyes. “Oh, Billy, would you please pick me for your team? I don’t like to be without my big, strong man…”

“Well, I don’t like th-th- _that_ ,” Bill says, eyes wide as he back away from Richie who’s swooning closer to him. “Um, I choose St-Stanley.”

“What, because he’s _tall_?! What does he have that I don’t have!” Richie bellows.

“Height, as you said,” Stanley says.

“Skill,” Beverly smirks.

“Georgie!” Richie shrieks. “Beverly is being mean! Scold her!”

“Beverly, be nice to Richie!” Georgie says in the same scolding manner he had given Richie earlier, wagging finger and all. Beverly understands why Richie had caved so easily - it’s devastating.

“I’m sorry, little man,” she says, hanging her head and sounding genuinely apologetic.

“I accept your apology,” Georgie smiles. Beverly smiles back.

“Okay, I’ll choose next. Rich, you’re up,” she sighs, hooking her arm and beckoning him over. Richie’s eyes light up and he runs over to Beverly’s side with a huge grin.

“Yay! Friends?”

“You know it.” He and Beverly do their complicated handshake that all of them have seen before but none could ever replicate that involves banging their ankles together a few times, clapping rhythmically, and shooting fake pistols at each other until one of them pretends to die.

“Wow,” Eddie comments, laughing. “It gets more and more extravagant every time you do it.”

“We’re here all week,” Beverly says, bowing.

“Leave all tips with the concierge, please,” Richie says. He ruffles Georgie’s hair and the boy giggles.

“Alright, I choose… the con-con-concierge,” Bill smiles, pointing at Georgie. Georgie bounces in place for a moment, making an excited noise in the back of his throat, before joining Stanley and Bill.

Ben and Mike end up on Beverly’s team and Eddie on Bill’s, and they flip a penny Richie found on the ground (“Heads up! Good luck!”) to see who gets the ball first. Richie insists he be the one to choose for their team, considering it was his lucky penny. None of them disagree, and Richie ends up picking heads. Georgie shows them the face of Abraham Lincoln facing up and Richie whoops.

“Lucky penny prevails!” They take the ball and what should’ve been a normal game of basketball devolves quickly enough when several rounds in, Richie suggests shirts and skins.

 _“No,”_ they all say at once.

“It’s too cold!” Eddie insists.

“When has that ever stopped us before?” Richie asks, leaning in with his eyebrows jumping.

“What the fu--” His eyes cut to Georgie who’s looking up at him with a small smile. “--heck… are you even trying to reference?”

“That’s for me and your mom to know and you to find out,” Richie teases haughtily. Everyone groans.

“God, get a new joke, Rich, it’s been like five years of _your mom_ jokes,” Beverly moans. “Let us find peace.”

“Who says they’re jokes! Eddie’s mom certainly isn’t joking!” Georgie’s head cocks.

“I thought Eddie’s mommy wouldn’t let him come play today… Why are you playing with her Richie?” Everyone turns to Richie, stifling laughter. Eddie’s face is _maroon_.

“Answer carefully, pal,” Mike warns under his breath to Richie. He nods imperceptibly, almost to himself.

“Well, I really _was_ kidding around, Georgie…” He crouches down at eye level to look at Georgie and continues in a lower voice, hoping only Georgie can hear him. “I’m not a big fan of Eddie’s mommy myself, so I like to make jokes about her.”

“Bill told me that it’s not nice to make fun of people, even when they’re mean to you…” Georgie says worriedly, eyes darting off to the side.

“Bill’s right, Georgie. I should stop,” he says, trying to take the words he says seriously because he knows from what Bill has told him that this age is when Georgie really begins forming the personality and habits he’ll take with him into adulthood. He doesn’t want to be the reason Bill’s kid brother turns into a serial killer when he grows up or whatever. “But jokes when they’re nice are still fun sometimes.”

“Yeah! You’re funny, Richie!” Georgie giggles. Richie’s eyes light up.

“You hear that, guys?!” Richie asks loudly, whipping around to the rest of the group who all have soft expressions on their faces. Eddie’s and Stanley’s are wiped clean as soon as Richie looks at them, but the rest of them aren’t so quick to hide their fondness of Richie from him. “Georgie thinks I’m funny! It’s decreed: Richie Tozier is hilarious! No one dares argue with King George!”

Richie stands up and shucks his shirt off and throws it at Eddie’s face.

“Why?!” Ben groans. Eddie sputters and peels the sticky shirt from his face.

“Funny!”

“Ugh, we saw your naked torso enough over the summer, Tozier, don’t torture us in the fall, too,” Mike sighs.

“Gross, Rich! This is disgustingly sweaty!” Eddie holds the shirt out away from his body as far as he can reach, pinching it with two fingers.

“What do you want from me, Eds? I’m a growin’ boy!” he crows, flexing his thin arms. Eddie rolls his eyes. “You’re gettin’ taller, too!”

“Yeah, right…” Eddie grumbles.

“Your mother’s fear is stunting your growth. As soon as you’re moved out, you’ll shoot up nine inches.” Beverly snorts as Eddie shoots him a dead-eyed look.

“I can’t wait,” he says, voice void of emotion.

“Hey, Billy…” Georgie whispers at Bill’s side while the other two continue to argue playfully. Bill turns to his brother and frowns at the sad look he sees.

“What’s wrong, Georgie?”

“I haven’t made a basket yet… I don’t want the game to be over so that I can make one…” Georgie says quietly. Bill gives him a sweet half-smile.

“Oh, I think that can be arranged…” He looks up to where Stanley is rolling his eyes at the antics of Eddie and Richie and calls him over.

“Thank you for taking me away from that _misery_ ,” Stanley says. “What’s up?”

“You think you could use your… sp-sp-special skills to help Georgie make a basket?” Bill asks conspiratorially, nudging him with his elbow.

“Ooh. Absolutely.” Stanley carefully, primly, gets down on his knees in front of Georgie who looks a bit wary but has an undercurrent of excitement making its way through him. He’s never been on anyone’s shoulders that wasn’t family except at the beach, and the blacktop looks much more painful to fall on than the sand and ocean water did. _I’m brave,_ Georgie thinks, squaring his shoulders as Stanley taps his own. _Stanley wouldn’t let me fall._ Georgie climbs up carefully and Stanley holds on tightly to his shaking legs.

“Hey, you alright up there, champ?” Stanley asks, voice soft in a way that it only ever is around the Denbrough boys. Georgie nods tightly when Stanley looks up. “Are we good to go?”

“Yeah, Stanny. Good to go.” Stanley stands up slowly and Bill hands Georgie the basketball he’d procured from Ben who is now watching them with a fond expression.

“Hey! Look who grew nine inches! Take notes, Eddie!” Richie crows, laughing and pointing at Stanley and Georgie. Eddie rolls his eyes quickly at Richie but then flashes Georgie a thumbs up.

“Hi, guys! I can’t wave because then I’d drop the basketball, but look at me!” Georgie cries, giggling madly at the end of his sentence.

“We see you, buddy! You’re so big! You gonna make the winning shot?” Beverly asks.

“Yeah!” Stanley starts to walk up to the hoop without any flair, trying to hold onto Georgie as he vibrates with excitement, and Richie puts on his sports announcer Voice to relay the play-by-play.

“Denbrough steps up to the court. He dribbles past Shaq, leaps over the heads of not two, but _three_ players in an impressive alley-oop, the likes of which none of us have ever seen, and…!” As soon as Stanley is in front of the hoop, Georgie deposits the ball into it. “He scores! And the crowd goes wild!”

Everyone cheers raucously as Stanley kneels down to let Georgie off his shoulders. Once he’s on the ground, Georgie starts cheering with them.

“I did it! I did it!”

“You did! The winning shot with only two seconds left on the clock, Georgie! You’re a hero!” Richie laughs.

“I’m a _hero!_ ” Georgie repeats with great emphasis and excitement. All of them are so glad to see Georgie happy that they don’t even remember the annoyance of watching Richie and Eddie tease each other mercilessly. Eddie hands Richie back his shirt during the ruckus and Richie smiles at him before pulling it back over his head. Eddie looks away and back at Georgie, his own smile gracing his face as well.

They all move towards the hill that goes over top of the canal running through the center of the park. The hill overlooks the pasture below them beside the school that is always overgrown. Richie wants to go down and explore it and Eddie puts a stop to it, saying he’s certain Richie didn’t put on tick repellent and he’s sure to get ticks. Bill chuckles quietly and looks at Richie knowingly.

“...And then you’ll get Lyme Disease and you might get autism as a result, there’s studies that show that you know, and the disease is very undetectable until you’re already displaying a lot of symptoms, and it always comes back, it’s never curable, like _cancer_ , and -- ”

“Eds, I’m not gonna die from Lyme Disease, stop trying to scare me,” Richie says, a bit annoyed at his friend for spooking him with cancer when he knows that’s one of his greatest fears. Eddie hangs his head, shakes it, and mutters an apology. Richie puts his hand on his back and keeps it there for a long, intimate moment before clapping it lightly - _I accept your apology._ Eddie looks back up and grimaces at the field.

“Whatever, I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Well, I do!” Richie crows, standing up and taking a few steps down the hill.

“Don’t you dare, Richie Tozier!”

“Oh, I think I will dare.” He takes another small step down and Beverly sighs dramatically.

“You look like you need a little assistance, here, let me help…” And with that, she unceremoniously shoves him down the hill. Richie goes tumbling with a few _oofs!_ and several high-pitched screams. He ends up being stopped by a very small tree, probably only a few years old, growing at the bottom. He bends it a little and then looks up at his friends who are all quite worried at the top of the hill. Before they can even call out to him though, he yells out, “Strike!” and they all laugh hysterically, Beverly mostly out of relief that she didn’t really hurt her best friend.

“We’ve gotta do that again!” he cries, ambling up and jogging up the steep hill. “We’ll make a game out of it! I’ll call it Human Bowling. Everyone except Bev, you all go down the hill and stand in a group, all tightly packed together. Beverly’s gonna roll me and we’ll see how many of you I can hit at once.

“Oh, this seems stupid…” Stanley mutters, mostly to himself. He’s the first one down the hill regardless of his comment though.

“I’m not sure about Georgie…” Bill whispers as he passes by Richie.

“He can keep score,” Richie says back quietly. Bill nods with a smile and explains to Georgie on the way down that he has the most important job of all: scorekeeper.

Beverly and Richie set up at the top of the hill with Richie on his side. He’s debating between arms out above his head or crossed in front of his chest. He ultimately decides to let the chips fall where they may and tells Beverly he’s ready.

“Alright, fellas! Three! Two! One!” And she shoves Richie down the hill with a hand on his hip and the other pressed into his back. She pushes hard, as hard as she could manage, and he goes flying down the hill, laughing gleefully all the way down. He misses everyone by a longshot, considerably off target. He sighs as he runs up again.

“Alright, we need to angle me right this time,” he says with more conviction than Beverly thinks is ultimately necessary for a game where you roll down a hill and try to knock your friends over, but she isn’t about to pass judgement on the things Richie finds important. She wishes she cared about anything half as much as Richie cares about the world. She’s not sure she’ll ever find her will to care about anything with the intensity and ferocity that Richie does, but she knows it’s a valiant goal.

They play five more rounds of this before Beverly starts to feel like this is too violent for her liking.

“Hey, Bill?” Beverly calls down to where he’s standing with the rest of their friends. “You tired of watching Richie hurtle himself down this hill over and over?”

Bill snorts rather than laughs, which is why Beverly knows he truly did think it was funny, and he nods. “V-Very much so, yes.”

“Cool. Let’s go for a walk.” They split off from the group and she calls Eddie up to take her place with an amount of glee that would worry Beverly a bit if she didn’t know firsthand how much Eddie adores that boy. They walk towards the Kenduskeag River in relative silence. Occasionally, Beverly will point out beautifully colored leaves or sweet-smelling fall flowers, and Bill will hum and tuck them into her curls, but says nothing that couldn’t be explained better with his sweet smile. By the time they get to the Kissing Bridge, Beverly has a crown of assorted flora weaved into her hair and is smiling gleefully. Bill is also smiling, but much more softly down at his dirty white Converse as he kicks the dirt on the path leading up to the covered bridge.

They walk up onto the bridge and stare out at the water in a peaceful silence, listening to their friends play on this crisp, fall day. It _is_ a bit chilly, Eddie’s mother was right, but none of them care so long as they’re together. The adrenaline and excitement of being together warms them to their cores. Bill’s smile grows as he watches a few small fish swim downstream with the current. He points them out silently and Beverly lets out a soft _ooh_ and then it’s quiet again. Bill is so deeply lucky that he can have whole conversations with some of his friends without ever needing to say a word. Words have always been difficult for Bill - a point of contention between his brain and his tongue. But his friends are always patient civilians in this battle, always waiting with open arms when he puts down his tired rifle and comes home.

Bill hears Beverly sigh harshly, annoyed, and he turns to her with a confused look, worried he’s done something wrong.

“Nothing,” she says quickly.

“N-Not true,” he says simply. He doesn’t push it, though. He never pushes anyone, but especially Beverly - she’s had even people pushing her to do things, say things, be things she didn’t want to last a lifetime.

She sighs again, but this time it’s sadder, more resigned. She points to the side of the bridge where something is written and says nothing, gives no explanation. There’s nothing to say.

 _For a good time call BEVERLY MARSH!  
_ _677-8397_

For a long time, Bill stares silently. He does not move. He does not _blink_ , afraid that if he does, the words will turn into something worse. He’s afraid if he does, the disgusting pigs who etched this garbage into the bridge beside people’s initials and innocent lipstick stains will be there, and Bill will not be liable for what he does to them. He begins shaking with the kind of quiet rage only Bill Denbrough is capable of - the kind he knows does not scare Beverly because it is not violent the way she has been forced to endure. The shivering, quivering, quaking rage of Bill Denbrough could burn whole cities to dust. He wants to burn this stupid bridge and let the ashes rot away in the river. He wants to burn the fuckers who deigned to use Beverly’s phone number in such a disgusting, permanent manner and hope they hurt the way they made her hurt. He wants to burn this whole stupid, vile town to the ground.

He settles for dropping to his knees and ripping at the words with his nails.

Because, yes, Beverly _hurts_. She’s been wondering why her aunt’s been asking her to let her screen calls. She thought it was her being overprotective; she knows the truth now. _Jesus,_ she thinks, _will it ever stop? Will I ever stop being someone else’s fucking property?_ That’s all she felt like when she read those words: property. Her father made her property when he was alive and even though he’s been dead and buried for over two years, Beverly still feels under the thumb of control - controlled by society, controlled by the horrid boys and men of this town, controlled by the image her father created of her that the townsfolk refuse to let go of, controlled by rumors of her supposed life.

But Bill has never once tried to control her. He has always held onto her with a gentle, outstretched palm, letting her slip out of her grasp whenever she desires. Bill Denbrough has never tried to control her and he shouldn’t be taking the hurt for her.

Beverly is yelling at him to stop because he’s going to get splinters under his nails. He shakes his head quickly and then looks up at her with wild, wet eyes.

“I don’t care!” Bill cries. “I don’t care what happens to me, when all this terrible shit keeps happening to you! I’d take a thousand splinters every single day for the rest of my fucking _life_ if it meant you never had to deal with any of this bullshit ever again.”

Beverly is lost for words. They’re drowning, drowning, down, _down_ , so she pulls Bill into her lap and they collapse into each other, sobbing - each of them a life preserver. Bill clutches onto the straps of her favorite maroon overalls to try to pull her closer. He’s burying his face in the corduroy to try to make her part of him so that he doesn’t have to worry if she’s alright anymore. Bill Denbrough worries - constantly. Perpetually, always worries. But with Beverly, it’s always been different. It’s always been _more._

“I’m so fucking worried about you, Beverly…” he whispers, harsh and wrecked with tears. Beverly sniffs and laughs. The sound is wet and not at all out of enjoyment.

“You don’t need to. You know I’ve always had my own back.” Bill wraps his arms around her and drags her impossibly closer.

“Good. I’m so glad. Just know you’ve a-a-always got back up, sweetheart.” She smiles and turns her head slightly to kiss his cheek. Bill thinks the Kissing Bridge has never seen anything burn quite like the incomparable Beverly Marsh.

Beverly is whole, with or without the boy clutching onto her back like a lifeline, but she knows she’d much rather be whole with him than without him. She is whole and she always was, no matter what has happened, what is happening, or what might happen in the future. Beverly Marsh is whole. She is whole. She is _whole -_ and she will stay that way.

 

* * *

 

“Richie,” Stanley groans. “Halloween shouldn’t have to come with _rules_.”

“Yeah, well, clowns are fucking _evil_ and don’t deserve to be a classic costume. I won’t stand for anyone dressing up as one in _my_ house,” Richie decrees.

“Your house?!” Stanley cries. Beverly laughs from her place next to him at the lunch table. “We’re having the Halloween party at your house now? You’re gonna buy all the snacks, set up and clean up after our barbarically messy friends?”

“Okay, point one,” Richie says, counting on his fingers. “Eddie? Is the least messy person alive. He cleans up after people compulsively like a vacuum.”

“Hey! Do not dehumanize me!”

“Point two,” Richie continues, ignoring Eddie entirely. “I don’t have the money to buy snacks, but I am willing to have Halloween at my house. As long as there are _no motherfucking clowns._ ”

“Rich,” Ben starts carefully. “Do you think it’s a good idea to have Halloween at your house?”

“Okay, there will be no adult supervision. We can do _whatever we want_ ,” he says with a flutter of his hands. Eddie looks over sharply at him and Richie meets his glance. “Whoever as well, Kaspbrak,” he suggests with an exaggerated wink. Eddie huffs, cheeks flaming, and looks back down at his untouched egg salad sandwich, fiddling with his 2% milk carton that Richie bought for him - a birthday present. His gift from his birthday in the beginning of October was to buy him lunch every day for the month of his birthday, and it was such a sweet gesture, considering he knows Richie’s family is low on cash. Richie doesn’t bother holding back a self-satisfied smirk before looking back at the group. “Come on, my mom works holidays so she gets the bonus pay and Jess is probably going to be at some lame-ass football party! The house will be _empty_ and _filled with alcohol_.”

That gets Beverly’s attention. “Alcohol, you say.”

“Yes, Beverly. The mystical crazy juice,” he proclaims. She rolls her eyes. “My mom likes the bub, so there’s a whole lot of alcohol in the house that she won’t even realize is missing. It’s the perfect crime, folks.”

“A-Alright, I’m in,” Bill concedes, much to Stanley’s disapproval, who turns on his friend with an affronted scoff.

“Traitor!” Stanley exclaims, pointing at Bill. He laughs and bats Stanley’s finger away.

“Not t-traitor, it’s just that for once, Tozier’s making a-a-a-a -- some sense.” Stanley huffs.

“Yeah, I’m in, too,” Beverly says. She pulls out her wallet and throws a ten dollar bill in the middle of the table. “For snacks. Don’t spend it all in one place, sweetheart.”

Richie laughs delightedly, picking up the money and shoving it in his pocket. “I won’t, dumpling.” Bill and Ben throw down ten dollar bills as well. Richie looks between Stanley and Eddie. “Boys? Are you going to concede to the brilliance of my plan?”

Eddie huffs, unzipping his fanny pack and pulling out his money clip (“It’s safer if you get mugged!” “Who’s going to _mug_ you in Derry, Maine, Eddie?” “You can never be too careful!”), throwing down a wad of one dollar bills. “Fine. But I maintain that this is a bad idea.”

“You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t, sugar,” Richie coos, tousling Eddie’s hair. Eddie ducks and goes to hit him, but Richie’s already pulled away, looking expectedly at Stanley. “You gonna make the party, Big Man?”

“God,” Stanley groans. “You’re paying for candy to pass out for the kids.”

Richie shrugs. “With all this cash, I can buy a condo in Myrtle Beach!” he cried, tossing a few of Eddie’s ones up in the air.

“Be careful!” Eddie exclaims, bending down to pick up the money that had dropped. “And why Myrtle Beach? Isn’t that where all the old people flock to?”

“Watch your mouth, vacuum cleaner…” Richie mutters.

_“Hey!”_

 

It’s the night of Halloween and Richie is putting the final touches on his costume after saying goodbye to his mom, promising everyone will be out of the house by 10.

_Yeah, fat chance, Ma._

The doorbell rings and Richie rushes across the house to open the door. He finds Bill, Mike, Ben and Beverly standing in the threshold.

“Guys!” Richie crows. Beverly, drenched in fake pig’s blood and rocking a white prom dress, making her the perfect Carrie, gives him a flat look.

“Yoda?”

“Expect what, did you - _hmm?_ ” Richie asks faux-sagely, shaking his head so that the fake long green ears he’d glued to one of his mom’s old headbands wiggles. He is covered in terrible green greasepaint; it lays thick on his face and is cracking around his nose already.

“Are you gonna talk like that all night?” Ben asks.

“Maybe,” Richie smirks, dropping the character for a moment before composing himself again. “Marty McFly! Met you once, I did.”

“No, you didn’t, you weirdo. Stop with the voice, it’s getting old fast,” Ben laments, stepping out of the cold. It’s chilly for October this year, all of them needing to hang up their coats before stepping fully inside the house. Ben’s costume is an exact replica of Marty McFly, right down to the rusty brown puffy vest and skateboard that he held in his hand which all of his friends knew he would have busted his rear end on if he ever actually tried to ride it; it was just a prop, like the tiara on Beverly’s head.

“How I speak, this is, young one,” Richie comments. All of them roll their eyes except Bill, who has been delightedly looking at him during the entire interaction.

“I l-love your costume, Rich!” Bill exclaims.

“And to you the same, Mr. Jones,” Richie says with a bow. Bill strikes a pose quickly, showing off his Indiana Jones costume, and then shyly ducks his head, the overly large fedora adorning his head drooping past his eyes so that all anyone can see is the blushing apples of his cheeks.

Mike is sporting a royal purple trench-coat, his right shoulder adorned with rhinestones, a ruffly white shirt whose collar climbs up to his chin and is held tightly closed with three buttons, black high-waisted pants, and a pair of black boots. His eyes are lined expertly with black makeup and an actual guitar is slung over his shoulder.

“What sorta pirate carries around a guitar?” Ben asks as he peers at his friend. Mike looks like Ben has punched him in the gut. He pinches the bridge of his nose between two of his fingers and takes a deep, calculated breath.

“I’m _Prince,_ you uncultured buffoon.” Mike sighs.

“Prince of what?” Beverly teases, and Mike shoves her playfully as she turns to face Ben. “Do you seriously only listen to New Kids On the Block?”

“All other music is derivative,” Ben deadpans and Richie whines like a wounded animal.

“Not in my fucking house!” Richie cries, rounding on Ben with fire in his eyes. “Have you _listened_ to The Cure?! _Lovesong_ is the tune of our _generation_ , Benjamin.”

“Have _you_ heard _Hangin’ Tough_?” Ben shoots back, an infuriatingly casual smile on his face. Richie might’ve committed a violent crime if it weren’t for Bill interrupting in that moment.

“W-Where’s the r-r-rest of the motley crew?” They all follow him Richie into his living-room. They smile widely, taking in the fake spiderweb lining the walls, the orange and black streamers hung in zigzags from one corner of the room to the other, and the seemingly endless assortment of snacks laid out on the tiny coffee table; the kid really went all out for this party.

“Any minute, they should be,” Richie drones, falling easily back into the Voice of the green alien, and Ben groans.

“Lord, make it _stop!_ ” he cries as the doorbell rings, and Richie bounds up the bi-level and back towards the front door to answer it, scooping up the bowl of candy he’d left on the arm of the sofa as he went.

“Trick-or-treat!” Eddie chimes when Richie opens the door to find him waiting on the other side. Stanley is still at the end of the driveway, locking his bike beside his friends’ on Richie’s homemade bike rack. Eddie’s dark hair is slicked back and his pair of bifocals are perched on his freckled nose; he is wearing a simple blue button-up shirt and a pair of khaki slacks with black dress shoes.

“If I pick treat, do I get a kiss, Eds?” Richie snarks, leaning against the doorframe and Eddie turns pink. “You make a cute nerd.”

“I’m not a _nerd,_ ” Eddie scoffs, and he pops the buttons of his shirt open to reveal a Superman T-shirt. “I’m Clark Kent.”

“You and your superheroes,” Richie sighs fondly, reaching to mess up the other boy’s hair, but Eddie ducks at the last second, narrowly avoiding disaster. “Say, Yoda and Superman are technically both aliens -- ”

“Can you two quit flirting for two fucking seconds?” Stanley asks with a grin when he finally joins Eddie on the porch. He is in a New York Yankees uniform and cap, the number 5 on his back and a baseball bat in hand while his other hand is shoved into a mitt.

“Oh, Stanley, I simply cannot let you in without a costume,” Richie sighs, shaking his head sadly.

“What are you talking about, you idiot? This _is_ a -- ”

“Summer’s over, buddy - sandlot’s closed! _Let it go,_ ” Richie teases, patting his shoulder sympathetically.

“Let me in, Tozier, before I beat you to death with this bat,” Stanley threatens, sounding half-serious. “Then with your blood everywhere, I’d just be _dead_ Dimaggio.” Richie holds his free hand up in surrender and steps to the side, allowing Stanley and Eddie to pass before closing the door behind them.

 _“All here, the gang is!”_ Richie bellows in his Yoda Voice as he re-enters the living-room, dropping the bowl of candy into Bill’s lap before throwing his arms around Stanley and Eddie’s shoulders. “Refreshments?” he asks, a mischievous glint in his eye, and Beverly is on her feet instantly, following him to the kitchen. “I trust you can pick a lock, Marsh?”

She scoffs. _“Can I pick a lock…”_ She rolls her eyes as she digs a bobby-pin free from where it’s holding the tiara to her head. “What do you think this is, Tozier? Amateur hour?”

Beverly kneels down and picks the lock of the liquor cabinet in under thirty seconds. Richie gives a low whistle. “Damn, Bevs, you sure know how to charm a lady.”

“Thought you were an alien.”

“Yoda’s gender is irrelevant to the story arc,” Richie sniffs, nose in the air. “Now, what type of drinky drank should we hoist upon these fine fellows?”

Beverly begins looking through the cabinet before making a triumphant noise. “A-ha!” She pulls out an unopened bottle of scotch. “Score.”

“Yoda drinking scotch? Know what this needs?” Richie opens the glassware cabinet and pulls down seven tumblers. “The fancy cups.”

“You just called glasses cups,” Beverly deadpans. Richie pauses.

“...Yoda know that word he doesn’t,” Richie says sagely, walking out with the scotch and leaving the glasses to Beverly.

“A little help?!” Beverly calls out.

“Hear you I cannot!” Richie cries, letting the kitchen door slam shut. It’s her fault, really - she sassed him. He was more than willing to help before that comment. He holds up the bottle when he enters the room. “Drinks does anyone want?” Richie yells excitedly. Everyone groans.

“I’m going to murder you a thousand times if you keep that Voice up, Tozier,” Eddie comments gravely.

“Kinky.” Richie winks at him. “Bev, honey, hurry up with those glasses!”

“Oh, so now you know what they’re called,” Beverly shoots back, coming into the room slowly, holding the door open with her foot. Ben immediately rushes over and holds it for her, taking three glasses himself. She shoots him a grateful smile.

“Okay, who’s our designated driver for the evening?” Richie asks.

“I’ll do it,” Eddie says, raising his hand, but Richie shakes his head in return.

“Eds, you’re always designated driver. Pass the torch, spread the love,” he says, pouring out seven drinks.

“Yeah, I just… I dunno, I’m not big on drinking. Everyone’s drank from that bottle before, it’s nasty.” Richie shakes his head.

“New bottle, and we’ll make a rule that there are no naked swigs. No glove, no love. No glass, no ass.” Eddie hits him hard on the arm, and Richie laughs. “Everyone on board for ol’ Spaghetti Man?”

Everyone nods their heads empathetically. “Eddie, I’ll take the bullet this time,” Mike says. “My grandpa will occasionally let me have a beer with dinner, anyway, I’ve never needed to sneak the stuff. If you’re comfortable with that. We’re all pals, it’ll be okay if you get drunk.”

“I’ve just… never gotten drunk before,” Eddie mumbles. Richie bites back a fond smile, tipping his head down as he measures out shots into the glasses so that nobody sees. Stanley walks over and puts a comforting hand on Eddie’s back.

“You don’t have to,” Stanley assures him. “It’s up to you. Do you want to? Are you interested in seeing what it’s like? This is a safe environment, that’s what we always have a designated driver for. No pressure, though.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep all us knuckleheads safe,” Mike smiles, and it’s so warm and familiar that Eddie doesn’t particularly remember why he was afraid in the first place. He smiles back.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll try it.” Mike thumps him on the back and it sends Eddie stumbling a bit.

“Good! Now that we’ve got that all figured out, a toast,” Richie declares, passing out the tumblers filled with scotch. “Every party we toast to something. This Halloween, I say we toast to fear. To the anxiety that fills us all and battling it together. To us. To fear.”

“To fear!” They all call out, clinking glasses. Richie doesn’t miss the starry-eyed stare he gets from Eddie at his speech, but the moment they make eye contact, the look is wiped clean as he takes his first sip and promptly sputters as everyone downs the contents of their cups.

“This shit is nasty! What is this stuff?!” Eddie cries. Everyone laughs, the burn of the alcohol not much affecting most of them.

“It’s scotch,” Beverly replies, voice deeper and darker from the delicious slide of her first shot.

“It’s disgusting, that’s what it is,” Eddie sighs.

“It’s alcohol, Spaghetti Man, it’s not supposed to be fun to drink. The fun part comes _after_ ,” Richie promises, a tinge of something dangerous in his voice that Eddie can’t comprehend. It sends a spark of electricity down his spine that he promptly ignores. Eddie steels himself, plugs his nose, and downs the rest of the shot. Everyone cheers for him.

He slams the glass on the table and looks up at them, panting a bit, eyes finally settling on Richie. He licks his lips. “Don’t call me that.”

Richie’s eyes widen in shocked delight and his smile lights up his whole face. “No promises.”

 

As the course of the night goes on, they find out several things: Eddie is a funny drunk (or, he _thinks_ he’s a funny drunk, as does Richie), Richie had bought mostly candy with the money the group had given him a few days prior for snacks (which is fine with the children of the neighborhood who come to the door), and Richie owns Twister.

“Games! We need games! Richie, do you have a game closet?” Beverly asks excitedly after her third shot of scotch. Richie looks at her incredulously.

“ _Game closet_? Who do you think I am, the Monopoly Man?” Richie demands.

“Not dressed like that! Am I right, guys?” Eddie crows, looking for a high five and not noticing that no one gives it to him, laying on the floor and cackling at his own joke. Richie slides to the ground from the couch and slaps Eddie’s waiting hand.

“Check the closet in my bedroom. It’s upstairs, second door on the left, the one next to the bathroom,” Richie says, pointing down the hall. Beverly takes off running, ricocheting off the hallway walls.

“Richie! Your room is so messy! Make sure Eddie or Stan don’t come in here - they’d never leave. There’s so much to conquer!” Beverly calls.

“Don’t clean my room, Beverly! Just look for a stupid game,” Richie groans.

“Looking!” Beverly shrieks, the closet door of his bedroom banging open. Eddie rolls over and looks up at Richie. His eyes are big and beautiful, shining in the soft living room light.

“Hey, buddy,” Richie says, scratching at Eddie’s hair lazily, completely destroying the slicked back look that took him 45 minutes to do. Eddie doesn’t even realize and leans into the touch. “You havin’ a good time?”

“I am, Master Yoda,” Eddie giggles.

“Kinky,” Richie comments, raising an eyebrow. Eddie slaps his thigh.

“Not everything is kinky! And quit it, I’m playing along!”

Richie leans back on the palm that isn’t buried in Eddie’s hair and smiles down at the boy softly. “That you are.”

“ _Score_!” Beverly bellows from the other side of the house. They all look up as she runs back into the living room, holding a box high above her head, as if it’s a holy artifact of some kind, and Richie laughs when he sees what it is.

“Twister?!”

“Yeah!” Beverly smiles. “I’ve never… I, uh, I’ve never played! It seems like fun!” Bill looks over at Richie and gives him a look, darting his eyes with it, that either means _let’s play_ or _go outside and stand in the cold_. Richie isn’t very good at deduction skills when he’s drunk, but he’s pretty certain Bill doesn’t mean the latter. He looks back to Beverly and sighs. He’s never been very good at physical games; he’s the catcher on their baseball team for a reason.

“I didn’t even know I had that game,” Richie says.

“Well, you do now! Come on!” And that seems to settle it. Everyone rises to their feet as Bill and Mike move the living room couch back a few feet and Beverly flattens out the board onto the floor in the empty space.

“Who wants to go first?” Beverly asks.

“This nerd does,” Eddie grins, poking Richie in the side several times.

“Who you calling a nerd! You’re dressed up as the alter ego of a superhero!” Richie crows.

“Superman is not a nerdy comic book! First of all, Clark Kent is -- ”

“Okay, guys, just for derailing the conversation, you’re both going first,” Beverly decides. Richie and Eddie both groan.

“I’ll play,” Stanley offers, stepping forward.

“Me, t-t-too,” Bill says.

“Great! I’ll spin for this round, but I’m playing next,” Beverly winks.

They set up, Richie and Eddie across from each other, standing shoeless on the carpet as they wait. Beverly asks who’s going first and Eddie points delightedly at Richie.

“Rich is!”

“Why me?! Why do I have to go first?” Richie bellows.

“It’s your house, isn’t it? We can’t be clowns, so you have to be the clown that goes first. Ha!” Eddie crows, throwing his arm up in the air for a high five, which Beverly reaches over and gives him. Richie lets out a high whine from the back of his throat before slumping his shoulders and relenting.

“Left foot green.” They go around with Beverly spinning, and no one is particularly whining anymore until it’s Richie’s turn again. Eddie is currently tangled in Bill’s legs, trying to get to the other side of the mat, while Stanley is bending in ways none of them thought he was capable of and Richie is standing, left foot on yellow, right foot on blue, hands in the air.

“Ha, you losers look great from this height. Hey, Eds, you doing squats?” Richie says, peering closer at Eddie’s rear end, and Eddie blushes deeply.

“Shut the fuck up, Tozier, and just play the game,” Eddie mutters. And Beverly decides she’s going to take Richie’s luck streak with the spinner into her own hands. She spins and it lands on left foot red. She smiles brightly.

“Right hand red, Trashmouth,” she calls proudly. She never said she was a saint, alright? Richie grumbles, putting his hand in between Eddie’s feet.

“Hmm, even better from here, Eddie Spaghetti,” he leers, and Eddie attempts to swat at Richie with his free arm but ends up smacking Stanley upside the head instead, knocking his baseball cap clean off.

 _“Ow!”_ he yelps, wobbling a bit as the force of the hit off-sets his balance and nearly sends him sprawling out across the mat. “Watch it, Kaspbrak!”

“Sorry, buddy!” Eddie says before sticking his tongue out at Richie; his hair is sufficiently messed up at this point, a few strands falling lazily in his face, and the way he’s contorting now has caused his glasses to slide all the way to the end of his nose, forcing him to peer overtop of them at Richie. His brown eyes are wide and still clouded with a sort of haze only alcohol could cause. Richie thinks he could stare back all day, but then Beverly is crying out the next move, drawing his focus away from Eddie.

“Left foot, blue, Stan!” she declares, and Stanley growls as he tries to slide his left leg beneath Bill’s stomach, stretching with all his might to reach one of the blue circles and suddenly becoming very grateful that he’s inherited his father’s height.

“Right hand, yellow, Bill!” Bill lifts his hand carefully off of the circle it had been resting on, his tongue poking between his lips as he concentrates all his energy on _not_ falling, but once all of his weight is balancing on his one arm, all it takes is a twitch of his muscle and he’s down, and because the other boys were all twisted about him, they all land on their asses, a mess of tangled arms and legs on Richie’s living-room floor. Beverly is beside herself, giggling into her hand as tears roll down her face, causing the fake blood she’d doused herself in to run red tracks further down her cheeks and neck.

“Nice goin’, Denbrough!” Richie grumbles from where he’s pinned to the ground by Eddie’s lower half, and the boys struggle to unwind themselves as Beverly’s laughter grows even louder. Mike and Ben poke their heads back into the living room from where they’d gone to grab snacks from the kitchen, and they laugh, too.

“Nice attempt, boys,” Ben teases as he sits on the sofa beside Beverly, offering her the bowl of pretzels he was carrying.

“Shut it, McFly…” Stanley mutters once they’re all free of each other.

As they set up for the next game, the doorbell rings. Richie goes to answer it and finds Georgie Denbrough on his front stoop. Both of their faces light up.

“Georgie! My boy!”

“Hi, Richie! Who are you dressed as?”

“Yoda, I am,” Richie says, bowing low, hands pressed together in prayer, and Georgie giggles.

“That’s from _Star Trek_ , right?” Georgie asks.

“Close, buddy! _Star Wars. Star Trek_ is a show, _Star Wars_ is a far superior movie series.”

“Are you sp-sp-spreading lies to my brother, Richie?” Bill demands, and Georgie’s eyes practically close with the force of his smile at the sight of his brother. Georgie pitches forward into the house and wraps himself around Bill, who’s bent down to hug him. “Hey, pal!”

“Hi, Billy!” Bill picks Georgie up and spins him around. Georgie laughs loudly and it echoes through the house. “Silly Billy, put me down!”

“Never!” Bill says, squeezing him tight. “Did you know you’re my best brother Georgie? My best friend in the whole world?”

“You’re mine, too! Not Lulu or Kelly or even Robert. It’s you, Billy!” Bill hooks Georgie to his hip and squishes their cheeks together, humming. Georgie looks at him like he’s lost a few of his marbles, but throws his arms around Bill’s neck. “Love you, Bill!” As he says this, Stanley comes up to the scene with Mike’s polaroid and takes a snapshot.

“Ooh, that’s a keeper,” he remarks, waving the photo in the air so it develops and smiling at the two of them.

“Stan!” Georgie cries, wiggling in Bill’s grasp so he can get down and say hello to Stanley. “Hi, Stanny!”

“Hey, Georgie! It’s good to see you! I love your costume - you pulled it off to the tens!”

“Thanks! Bill and Mommy helped with it,” Georgie explains, spinning in place. He’s dressed as Bill, decked out in a red plaid shirt that must belong to Bill himself, considering how large it is on him, and cut-off jeans, always a staple in Bill’s summer wardrobe.

“Are you warm enough, Georgie? Do you need me to walk you home and get a coat? It’s p-pretty chilly!” Bill says. His stutter almost completely disappears around Georgie unless he's nervous, and it’s a bit disarming for Richie and Stanley to hear; they’re both so used to the boy’s speech impediment that they barely even notice it’s there anymore, and now that it’s gone, it’s more obvious that it was there in the first place.

“I’m okay, Billy, swear.” Bill holds out his pinky and they do a complicated handshake that Richie is positive he couldn’t pull off sober, let alone as drunk as Bill is.

“Okay, well, I hope you have a good night, buddy. Take some candy. Richie got Reese’s cups, your favorites!”

“Yeah, take as many as you want, kiddo!” Richie asserts, leaning down and covering the side of his mouth, and whispering to Georgie. “It’s not like anyone will know the difference.”

Georgie giggles and grabs four Reese’s cups before giving Stan a hug.

“Bye, Stanny. It was good to see you. I miss you,” Georgie says, muffled by Stanley’s pants a bit. Bill smiles lovingly at them. He adores how much Georgie idolizes his friend; it makes him feel a little less odd for doing the same. Sure, Georgie does because Stanley’s an incredible baseball player and Bill does because he’s an incredible person. But who’s keeping score?

“And what about me, hm?” Richie crows, hands on his hips. Georgie laughs and barrels into Richie’s legs. Richie leans down and feigns eating his head. Georgie pushes him away, laughing harder.

“Richie! Beep!” They all grin at Georgie for trying to use the phrase they all lovingly throw at Richie on a near-daily basis. Georgie gives a hug to Bill last, it lasting longer than all of them. “Bye-bye, Billy.”

“Bye-bye, Georgie,” Bill says sweetly. “Go get us some cool candy, okay?”

“Oh, do I have to share?” Georgie whines. Bill gives him a stern look. “Oh, alright,” Georgie relents, smiling a bit before skipping down to meet Terri Denbrough at the end of the walkway. She waves at the three of them and they all wave back. Bill wipes a tear by the time Georgie’s out of sight.

“I love that boy,” Bill says, sending the two of them a watery smile. Richie returns it, clapping him on the shoulder.

“We all do, buddy,” Richie affirms. “Now, c’mon, let’s go watch Mike and Bevs make fools of themselves and mock them relentlessly the way they did to us.”

When the boys return to the living room, it is to find Mike, Beverly, and Eddie in a complicated knot, limbs braided together in ways that look downright painful laid out on the Twister mat as Ben sits off to the side, spinning the wheel and barking orders at them. All appears to be going swimmingly, Richie notes to himself, leaning against the wall with a smile on his face as he watches his friends, until Eddie lets out a sneeze, sending the entire group toppling to the floor in a large heap. Eddie is smushed into the floor, his legs pinned there by both Beverly and Mike, all three of them groaning.

“That’s it! Twister is over! I’m blacklisting this game from all future parties!” Eddie decrees as he attempts to squirm out from beneath his friends. Richie, Stanley, and Bill are all laughing maniacally from the threshold of the living-room.

“Aw, Eds, don’t blame Twister just ‘cause your nose sabotaged the game!” Stanley hollers and Ben snorts loudly.

“I have allergies! I’m allergic to Richie.”

 _“Hey!_ I heard that and I won’t respond to it!” Richie cries.

“You just did, but sure.” Eddie deadpans from the floor. “Are you two gonna get off me anytime soon?” He cranes his neck to look over his shoulder at Mike and Beverly, neither of whom have made any effort to climb off of him since they fell. “You’re gonna break my arm…”

“I’d _never_ let you break your arm, Eddie, my love,” Richie insists and Eddie scoffs as the three on the game mat scramble up off of their bellies to sit back on their feet.

“You were all the way over there, so how exactly were you going to save me from that undeniable fate?” he asks, rolling his eyes and having to look down immediately when he notices the smirk growing on Richie’s face.

“Oh, so you want me to be _closer_?” Richie coaxes, eyebrows jumping.

“No, please, God, no,” Eddie begs as Beverly pops to her feet, clapping her hands together.

“Alright, new game!” she demands. “I need two hats,” she decides, holding her hands out to both Bill and Stanley. The pair of boys share a quiet glance with each other before shrugging and handing their hats over to her. Beverly places Bill’s fedora and Stanley’s Yankees cap on the coffee table in the living room and then digs out a pen from her bag. “Richie, do you have paper?”

“Napkins?” Richie suggests instead, holding a handful out to her that she graciously takes.

“Okay, so the way this game works,” Beverly begins as she starts to scribble random words onto the napkins, folding each of them up and plopping them into the Yankees cap, “is that we write down a bunch of body parts on slips of paper and put them in a hat. Then we write down our own names and put those into _another_ hat,” she writes her name down on a napkin and tosses it into the fedora before turning to hand the pen off to Ben, who takes it from her apprehensively. “First, you draw another name from the hat, and that’s your partner. Your partner then draws from the second hat, and whichever body part gets chosen is how you and your partner have to be attached to one another for the next hour and a half...”

“What happens after an hour and a half?” Ben asks warily as he passes the pen and the pile of napkins to Mike.

“We switch partners! So that nobody misses each other,” Beverly says, smiling, and everyone smiles back at her sweetly as they toss their names into the fedora. “But all parties have to okay each round, partners and body parts included. No exceptions. No one is going to be made to feel uncomfortable in my house.”

“Beverly, this is actually _my_ h--”

“Not - in - my - house,” she asserts, eyes burning, and Richie nods curtly.

“Alright, we can play this, but we’re still watching Beetlejuice,” he asserts.

“Yeah, sure, Rich,” Beverly sighs. “Mikey Mike, can you go get the egg timer?”

“Sure!” Mike says, popping up and walking into Richie’s kitchen. Beverly puts both hats in the middle of the room.

“Okay! Stanley, you wanna go first?” Stanley heaves a sigh and nods, primly choosing the first napkin out of the hat. It’s crumbled in a ball, unlike the rest of them that are folded neatly, and he uncrumples it, nose turned up and wrinkled in mild disgust. He reads the name and looks back at Beverly.

“Can I choose again?”

“Aw, Stan, c’mon, I’ll be a good partner, I promise!” Richie cries, arms flapping.

“How’d you even know it was you, Rich?” Eddie asks, a cross between disappointed and relieved that Richie’s been chosen already.

“Because it’s _Stan_. Who else would he want to not be stuck to for over an hour?” Richie asks.

“It’s because you always smell,” Stanley says, frowning at him and leveling him a look.

“Lies! Slander!” Richie points at Stanley with an unsteady gait due to the level of his inebriation. “I smell like sunshine, a summer’s day and _spring dew,_ you _swine._ ”

“I don’t eat pork,” Stanley deadpans. “And you definitely _don’t_ smell like any of those things.”

“I beg to differ!” Richie screams.

“Quiet _down_ , Richie!” Eddie shouts.

“Make me!” Richie has now gotten in Eddie’s face to the point where they’re nose to nose. Beverly rolls her eyes, smiling fondly.

“Okay, not that I couldn’t break this tension with a knife, but can we please continue?” Ben groans. “And can _both_ of you stop screaming? For _fuck’s_ sake…”

“Thank god…” Stanley grumbles.

Eddie immediately takes a step back from him, looking a bit embarrassed, but Richie just smiles slyly. He digs his hand into the other hat without looking until he can see Eddie looks visibly uncomfortable which is when he immediately looks down at the paper napkin in his hands.

“Yes!” Richie cries, dropping the napkin on the floor and immediately grabbing Stanley’s hand. He starts swinging them wildly between their bodies. “I love holding hands! I love holding hands!”

“Yeah, we can see that, Rich.” Stanley only smiles at him because Richie is too excited to see it.

Bill digs his hand in next, heartened greatly by the sight in front of him, and jumps excitedly as he waves the paper. “Eddie, you’re with m-me!”

“Oh, good!” Eddie cheers as he reaches into Stanley’s hat, drawing out another napkin; he reads it carefully, his smile growing as he does. “Hey, Bill - guess we’re gonna be _attached at the hip_ …” He turns the napkin around to reveal that it reads: _hips._

“Utterly terrible,” Mike drones with a shake of his head.

“I thought it was a good one!” Richie argues, holding his hand up to Eddie who high-fives him happily before frowning slightly when he remembers that they are not just an odd group, but an odd number as well. “Say,” he starts slowly, “we’ve got an odd man out.” Beverly frowns as well, realizing exactly what Richie is talking about.

“That’s okay, guys,” Mike concedes. “I don’t have to play.”

“No!” Beverly shouts. “Everybody is playing - unless you don’t want to!”

“Oh, I want to, but I’ll just sit this round out, Bevs - really, it’s okay…” Mike insists, patting her shoulder, but Beverly is shaking her head.

“No, we play as a group or we don’t play at all!” she says, looking like she might cry if Mike pressed the issue any further. “We’ll just have to have a group of three. Mikey, you’ll be with me and Ben…” Mike nods and smiles at her when she holds out the hat containing the napkins listed with body parts. “Who wants to draw?” Mike and Ben look at each other and quickly burst into a round of Rock, Paper, Scissors, the latter pulling paper to Mike’s rock, and Ben pumps his fist into the air triumphantly. Ben dips his hand into the cap and pulls out a napkin.

“Shoulders,” he reads out loud, and Beverly claps her hands together.

“Perfect! Now, remember, you have to stay attached for a whole hour and a half,” she reminds as she spins the timer to the appropriate time. “If you separate, whoever initiates the separation has to take a shot.”

“Ooh, I have suddenly become _way_ more interested in this game…” Richie smirks, still swinging his and Stanley’s hands between them.

 

Nobody quite remembers who put Beetlejuice on the television, all they know for sure is that _Jump In the Line_ is infinitely more annoying when it’s being performed by an entirely inebriated Richie.

“Give it a rest, Tozier,” Stanley pleads after the third rewind of the final song in the film; Richie is doing a damn near perfect rendition of the dance Lydia Deetz does to the song, his floppy green ears bouncing up and down as he bops his head to the music and sings along at the top of his lungs in his Yoda Voice. His dancing is especially impressive considering that he is still attached to Stanley, their hands clasped between them.

 _“In the line, jump! In time, your body rock! Okay!”_ Richie crows, throwing his free arm out wildly as he wiggles around, bumping into Stanley on occasion. _“Believe you, I do!”_

“I’m going to die in this house,” Ben groans, and Beverly giggles, hand covering her mouth as she leans against his right shoulder, leaving behind a faint residue stain from the fake blood on her cheek. Mike is leaning against Ben’s left shoulder.

She stares dreamily at the television, watching the girl on screen’s every move as she floats about the house, climbing high up to the ceiling. Beverly envies her, wishing sometimes that she could fly away too, soar higher and higher; it is a thought she has had for years, yearning for that freedom especially after her father’s death.

“Winona Ryder is so pretty,” Beverly sighs, chin resting on the heel of her hand.

“You’re pr-prettier, Beverly,” Bill insists as casually as if he were talking about the wallpaper in the living-room, and Beverly’s cheeks flare as red as her hair. “Even with all that f-fake blood.” He grins and she aims a half-hearted kick at his shin, the only natural response as she smiles back at him. Meanwhile, Richie leaps lavishly about the living room, kicking his legs so wildly he nearly upends the snack bowl.

“Christ, you should’ve been Beetlejuice for Halloween, Tozier - you make a mess wherever you go and you’re just as fucking dirty…” Stanley grumbles when he catches the bowl with his free hand, stopping it from spilling all over the carpet.

“Yup, that’s me!” Richie chimes. “Say my name three times and I come!”

 _“No!”_ Ben groans, covering his own ears as Bill shakes his head in quiet disbelief.

 _“Richie,”_ Beverly sighs, head falling into her hands.

“I don’t even have the fucking energy to beep you right now,” Stanley deadpans, and Mike is literally slumped on the ground, hands over his eyes.

“I fucking hate this,” he whines from where he is sprawled out at Eddie’s feet, and Richie points at him wildly.

“Mikey, you separated! You broke the bond!” he calls out, jumping up and down, and Mike groans, reaching blindly for one of the shot glasses on the coffee table beside him.

“It had to be done.” Mike deadpans. “You needed to know how _horrible_ that was.”

“You’re fucking disgusting, Richie,” Eddie deadpans quietly, blushing intensely. He suddenly wishes he hadn’t said a word because when Richie looks over at him, he smirks, slow and smooth. Eddie’s skin suddenly feels too tight on his body.

“Sex is au naturale, honey bun. And, besides, I can feel the heat comin’ off those squeezable cheeks from here, so he who screams the loudest…” Richie winks at Eddie swiftly, and the boy just about stops breathing altogether. He pulls it together quickly enough to grumble some nonsense quietly and cross his arms over his chest, making sure to keep his hip against Bill’s and jostling him in the process. Bill snakes his arm around Eddie’s hip and pulls them closer, knocking their heads together lightly in an attempt to comfort the boy without saying a word. Eddie smiles down at his feet as the egg timer in the kitchen goes off.

“Ah! Switch! Thank god, I didn’t want to deal with these two bickering for the _rest of time_ ,” Ben complains, pointedly looking at Eddie.

“What! He started it!”

“No way! You’re a _liar_ ,” Richie rasps, refusing to let go of Stanley’s hand, even as the rest of them are untangling themselves from each other. Stanley looks at him quizzically.

“Richie, you’re going to have to let go so we can start the new round.”

“No! I told you I love holding hands and I will go down with that mission statement!” Richie cries, bringing Stanley’s hand up to his mouth and kissing his knuckles gently and with an incredible flair of drama.

“Get off me!” Stanley shrieks, pulling his hand out of Richie’s grasp, but it goes easily, and Stanley realizes Richie would’ve allowed him to unlace their hands at any time. Stanley fights the smile that is tugging on the edges of his features valiantly, so appreciative of his friends’ rigid rules about consent.

“I wanna pick first! Me, me, me!” Richie cries, raising his hand high in the air and bouncing over to where the two hats lay resting on the coffee table. He plunges his hand into the fedora and pulls out the first napkin that he touches, unfolding it excitedly. “Bevs,” he sings, waving the napkin with her name scrawled on it beneath her nose. “It’s you and me ‘till the end of time, dear.”

Eddie tries to hide the slump in his shoulders when Richie calls out Beverly’s name, but he knows Bill sees it from the small, comforting smile he shoots him. Eddie feels silly anyway, wanting to be with Richie for this game; he’s sure Richie would just use it as an excuse to annoy him anyway. It wouldn’t even be fun to be in such close proximity with him. Not at all.

“Oh, thank God,” Beverly chuckles, rolling her eyes at him but letting him pull her to his side. She dips her hand into the other hat and pulls out a napkin. Richie reads open her shoulder and calls out to his friends excitedly.

“It says tummy!” Beverly frowns at him.

“Honey, I think you need to go back to the optometrist and get your prescription checked. It says stom--”

“Tummy!” Richie insists. He grabs the napkin from her and shoves it into his mouth. “You have no proof!” he cries, mouth so full that they can barely understand him. Eddie grimaces at the sight. “In this house, we trust Richie Tozier!”

“That’s _definitely_ not true…” Eddie retorts.

“Give that napkin back, you animal!” Beverly shouts, grabbing at Richie’s face. “We have to reuse it for the next round!”

“Other napkins there will be…” Richie insists, his Yoda Voice absolutely desecrated by the napkin in his mouth.

“Whatever, you literal Trashmouth,” Beverly sighs harshly. She then gestures to Mike. “Mikey, you’re up.”

“Bill!” Mike cheers after digging around in the fedora. “How exciting!”

Bill smiles at him sweetly. “Aw, Mikey, you’re too k-k-kind.” He does the same with his friend’s baseball cap. He squints at the paper confusedly.

“Leg? How are we gonna pull th-that off, guys?” Beverly looks around and then spots Bill’s lasso discarded on the floor.

“A-ha!” she crows. “We’ll tie you together! Are you guys cool with that?”

Mike makes eye contact with Bill and shrugs, smiling. “S’cool with me.”

“Yeah, t-t-tie us together, Beverly!” she giggles as she makes a knot around their joined legs.

“Wow, Bill’s costume really came in handy!”

“Came in _leggy_ ,” Richie stresses seriously. Eddie looks at him incredulously.

“I really hope you survive this night, Rich, because at this point, the prognosis is not looking good.” Richie sways in Eddie’s direction, swooning dramatically.

“Aww, you’re worried about my survival, Eds?” His grin turns mischievous then and Eddie gulps at the sight. “I hope you’d give me the kiss of life.” He winks as Eddie’s cheeks burn.

“Thin - ice,” Stanley promises.

“Looks like that leaves us three amigos!” Ben interrupts with a sweet smile. “Eds, why don’t you pick our poison?” Eddie shoots one last glare in Richie’s direction, who is still smirking at him, and plunges his hand into the hat.

“Cheeks,” he reads. He looks between Ben and Stanley and sighs. “This is certainly going to be an adventure.”

“Every night is an adventure with you guys!” Richie coos. He pokes Eddie in the direction of the two much taller boys. “Now, come on, boys, smush ‘em or pay the price!”

“God, shut up, Rich, we’re getting to it,” Eddie hisses, batting his hands away. He looks heavenward and then fits himself between Stanley and Ben. “Alright, guys, looks like you’re gonna have to…”

“Slouch, yeah, Eds, we gotcha. No worries,” Ben grins warmly. Eddie shoots him back a relieved smile, glad his friends aren’t giving him flack for needing to bend down to reach him.

“Okay, so King’s Cup?” Beverly proposes.

“Two games at once? Are you sure our brains can handle that, Bevs?” Richie asks seriously, eyes wide and imploring, even more magnified by his coke-bottle glasses. Beverly flicks him lightly between the eyes, his glasses bopping the bridge of his nose. He cringes.

“You look like a bug,” she responds simply. She turns to the rest of the group. “Alright, y’all know how to play?”

“No,” Eddie mopes. Beverly smiles at him.

“That’s okay, sweetie, no worries.” Beverly turns to the rest of them, addressing the group as a whole. “It’s pretty simple card game. Each card has an action assigned to it at the beginning of the game. We follow the actions assigned. The most important rule being that when the first three Kings are drawn, the people who drew them pour some of their drinks into the big cup in the middle. And then, when the last card is drawn, whoever drew it has to chug it.”

“The _whole thing_?!” Eddie shrieks.

“Until they give up, honey,” Beverly laughs. “Sound good?”

“I guess…” Eddie concedes. “But the whole ‘communal cup’ thing sounds like a fucking cesspool of germs to me.”

“I mean, if you want, Eds, you can be exempt from that rule if it falls on you. There’s not a high chance that it will, though. Up to you!” Beverly smiles. Eddie looks around at his friends, all smiling placatingly, and sighs, shoulders slumping defeatedly.

“I’ll play,” he relents. “I’m no stick in the mud.”

“Atta boy, Spaghetti!” Richie cheers, slapping Eddie’s back, making the smaller boy sway a bit unsteadily from the level of inebriation he’s already reached.

“Don’t fucking call me that. Now, weren’t you all excited about tummies?” Eddie jeers.

“Oh, yes, of course! How could I forget? Miss Beverly, my tummy awaits,” Richie announces, arching his back towards Beverly, sticking his stomach out as far as it’ll go. She laughs.

“Okay, Rich, but shouldn’t we set up first?”

“No! That’s not the game we’re playing!” Richie urges. “It’s hard sometimes. Isn’t that the point of games?”

“Whatever, Rich,” Beverly replies. She steps up closer to Richie and touches her stomach to his. He immediately snakes his arms around her waist.

“What a nice hug…” he sighs, resting his head on her shoulder. She smiles, shaking her head, and wraps her arms around his shoulders.

“Okay, guys,” she addresses to the group, turning to them all who are now connected, Eddie looking the most annoyed of them all despite the fact that he didn’t have to bend down at all, “who wants to go get the cup? It’s gotta be the biggest one you can find.”

Eddie puts his finger on his nose. “Not it.”

They all look at Bill and Mike. Mike sighs, throwing his hands up in the air. “Guys, our legs are literally tied together! We can’t be rifling around the house looking for a big cup, we can hardly walk!”

“Fine,” Eddie grits out. “C’mon, guys, let’s go.” He tugs Stanley and Ben towards the kitchen, who follow him with a similar level of annoyance.

“Okay, Rich, do you have a deck of cards?”

“Upstairs, in my room,” Richie grimaces. Beverly frowns.

“We should’ve thought about that earlier, shouldn’t we have?” Richie bobs his head on her shoulder. She sighs.

“Alright, guys, we’ll be right back,” she says to Bill and Mike. “Hold down the fort.”

“Will do.”

After several long, arduous minutes of climbing and rifling, they all convene back in the living room. Eddie, Stanley and Ben had all manages to find a large mug during their hunt, and Beverly and Richie come back to all of them pouring some of their drinks into it to make a mixture.

“At least whoever the King is will be drinking some Coke too instead of straight liquor, thanks to Mikey,” Ben sighs, shaking his head. Mike beams.

“Glad to be of service,” he says while Eddie looks warily at the cup in front of them.

“Guys, I’m not so sure this is a good idea…”

“You really _can_ sit out, E-Eddie. We won’t think l-l-less of you because of it,” Bill promises softly with a distressed look on his face. Bill is mostly a quiet drunk, almost always with a perpetual dopey smile, but his emotions run rampant with his friends’ as well, and he takes on the feelings his friends get easily in this state.

“No, it’s - it’s okay. Really. I’m just… the germs, you know?” They all nod.

“It’s okay, Spaghetti Man, all our mouths are clean as whistles,” Richie assures, smiling wide, all crooked teeth and a bravery Eddie knows he’ll never possess.

“You just ate a napkin not ten minutes ago, Trashmouth,” Eddie shoots back.

“Ah, yes, but a _clean_ napkin it was, young one,” Richie responds in his Yoda Voice, nodding sagely. Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Whatever, it’s fine, I’m just a freak. It’s fine…” Eddie grumbles, frowning and pulling his knees up to his chest where he sits on the carpet, crossing his arms around them and hugging them closer to himself. They all frown with him.

“Hey, hey, you’re no freak,” Mike assures, resting his hand on Eddie’s shin. “Really. We’ve all got stuff that makes us nervous. If you’re a freak, then we’re all freaks.”

“Yeah, look at me…” Stanley says, rubbing the back of his neck and nudging his face closer to Eddie’s. “Look at all my weirdness with messes…”

“Hey, it’s not weird,” Eddie vows, undoing his arms from around his knees and wrapping one around Stanley’s shoulders, pressing his whole body into Stanley’s. “It’s not.”

“Then y-your stuff isn’t weird either, Eds,” Bill smiles, so glad to see his friends so close.

“You’re not a freak, Eddie,” Richie utters quietly, head bowed down but facing Eddie. Eddie looks at him, but cannot see his expression. “You either, Stan. Your… Your fears are what make you guys you.” He looks up then, eyes darting between Eddie and Stanley’s. They both look utterly shaken. “I’d never want to be without you guys. So bring on the fears, because… they’re a part of you.”

Eddie ducks his head embarrassedly. He inches his hand closer to Richie’s from across the tight circle and then grabs it. It’s only for a moment, but Richie holds on for dear life. Stanley smiles shakily at him.

“Thank you, Rich,” he says, voice humbled and honest. “That… That means a lot.”

“Good,” Richie says resolutely. When Eddie drops his hand and pulls it back into his own lap, Richie claps once and rubs his hands together. “Alright, feelings time over. We all good to play?”

Ben groans. “Yes, _Trashmouth_ , we’re all good to play.” He darts his eyes over to Eddie who’s stewing quietly, lost in thought. He wraps his arm around Eddie’s waist. “Aren’t we?”

Eddie looks up and meets Bill’s eyes. Bill smiles soundly, so sure of the trust and safety this group developed over the years that the surety leaks into Eddie and fills him up. Eddie smiles back and then nods. “Yeah, we’re good to play.”

 

King’s Cup turns out to be a lot louder of a game than any of them originally thought. Ben is certain that all the yelling they’re doing can be heard down the street. They’re on their fourth round and three of the Kings have already been played. They’re down to the wire and after Richie, Stanley and Beverly all got the fourth King the last round, all three of them are loudly praying they won’t get it again this time.

“C’mon, no whammies, no whammies, no whammies…” Richie mutters with his hand hovering above the deck. There’s only a handful of cards left in the pile in the middle of the floor and it looks to Eddie as if he’s doing a complicated ritual with his hands over the deck.

“Richie, come on, just pick one!” Eddie whines.

“Excuse me, have _you_ gotten the King yet? I would rather not get absolutely fucking _plastered_ on this fine evening, so let me do my song and dance and leave me be,” Richie asserts. Eddie rolls his eyes as Richie slowly picks up the card on the top of the deck and then flips it and slams it down hard.

“Eight!” Richie cries. “That means I have to choose someone to be my mate whenever I have to drink. And after that sassy little comment, I choose Eds.”

“Hey! No way!” Eddie denies, mouth open in horror.

“Rules are rules, sweetheart,” Richie simpers. Eddie groans angrily.

“You’re gonna throw the game just to make me drink more, I know you are…”

“Well, I wasn’t planning on it before, but… now that’s interesting…” Richie hums, touching his chin thoughtfully. Beverly hits him on the shoulder from where they’re connected, laying face to face on the floor.

“Richie, no! Don’t cheat!” she scolds.

“Fine,” he relents. He then sends a smirk over to Eddie. “But you’re on thin ice, Eddie my love.”

“God, all I did was say what everyone else wasn’t brave enough to. I should get an _award,_  not wrapped up in a drinking contest with the Trashmouth,” Eddie storms, flipping his hand over in Richie’s direction.

“Wow, Eddie turned into a mean drunk real quick,” Mike notes.

“No!” Eddie denies in horror. “I’m not a mean drunk! I’m a funny drunk, that’s what you guys said!”

“There’s different levels of drunkenness, Eds, and I think you’ve hit a particularly unkind level of it,” Richie points out.

“I’m not mean…” Eddie grumbles, crossing his arms. “I’m always like this.”

“What, mean?” Ben laughs from his side. “Yeah, a bit.”

“I don’t…” Eddie tries, looking down in shame. “I don’t wanna be mean…”

Richie smiles at him patiently. “It’s okay, my love, I can take it.”

Eddie looks up at him from underneath his eyelashes and his frown begins morphing into a smile. “Yeah?”

“Definitely. You’ve been mean to me our whole lives, Eddie; if I was going to get insulted, it would’ve definitely happened by now,” Richie assures with a nod.

“Okay…” Eddie relents, smiling. He looks to Beverly. “Your turn, Bev.”

“Oh, goodie,” she deadpans, picking up a card quickly and dropping it on the ground in front of her. She groans. “Four.”

“Give two drinks out and take two yourself,” Ben reads from the list he’d written down on a napkin by his side. “Sorry, Bevs.”

“God, Rich, you’re not the only one who’s in danger of getting… what was it? Absolutely fucking plastered,” Beverly repeats, burying her face in her hands with a groan. She looks back up at her friends. “Okay, who’s drank the least tonight?”

“Not me or Stan,” Richie begs, eyes pleading. “We both got the King, too.”

“Okay, you guys and Mike are under house arrest for now. Which leaves…” She smirks dangerously at Ben, Bill and Eddie. “...you three.”

“Oh, fuck…” Eddie whimpers. “This isn’t gonna be good.”

“No, probably not,” Beverly agrees, pouring out three shots. “I _could_ split them up…” She slides one of the shots over to Eddie, who groans long and loud. “Or I could make the same person take two shots.”

“Ultimate power, really,” Richie muses, smirking at Eddie in the same dangerous way that Beverly is. To Eddie, they look almost like siblings, joined together and never able to be split apart. He thinks all of them are like that to some degree. He looks back at Richie who’s eyebrow tilts up and his smirk deepens. _Well, maybe not the siblings part…_ Eddie thinks, gulping audibly at the sight.

“Yeah, ultimate power…” Beverly smirks. She hands the second shot over to Eddie. “Truly the ultimate power.”

“C’mon, Bevs, this stuff is nasty!” Eddie tries, grimacing down at the shots in front of him.

“Yes, it is. We all know, we’ve all been drinking it tonight,” Beverly points out with a grin.

“Ugh. Okay, let’s do this together, then,” Eddie says, grabbing his shot with a slightly unsteady hand. He holds it out to her and she grabs her own and clinks it with his. Everyone cheers as they both knock them back. Eddie sputters a bit after he swallows, but the first one is a success. Beverly pours another round into her shot glass and swallows it down like a pro. Eddie, however, does not have as much proficiency.

“Descensus in cuniculi cavum!” Richie cheers, and Eddie’s confusion at the phrase makes him miss his mouth almost completely and alcohol dribbles over his chin. "No, Eds! Down!  _Down_ the rabbit hole!"

“Aw, shit!” Eddie curses, grabbing the first napkin he can find, which happens to be the napkin Ben wrote the rules on.

“Eds, that’s the rules!” Ben cries, grabbing for it, but the napkin is already soaked through and the ink is completely illegible.

“Nobody but you can read your h-handwriting anyway, Ben,” Bill laughs.

“Yeah, it’s okay, let the poor boy dry himself off,” Beverly coos, frowning at Eddie with pity.

“It’s fine…” Eddie sighs, allowing himself to let the alcohol thrumming through his veins calm down his racing heart. “Just someone pick the King already so we can dance.”

“Dance? Was that the next planned activity?” Mike asks, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s next on _my_ list, anyway,” Eddie says.

“Well, alright! Ben, looks like you’re up next!” Mike calls, reaching over to slap Ben on the back. Ben picks up the next card, frowning dubiously down at it, and sighs in relief when he sees the five of clubs.

“Okay, guys, rule time,” Richie says excitedly, rubbing his hands together. “What are you gonna hit us with, Haystack?”

“Something simple, I think…” he muses. “Um, how about we can only drink with our left hands?”

“Fine with me!” Richie cheers, waving his left hand in the air. “I’m left-handed!”

“Alright, Eds, you’re up,” Ben says. Eddie looks at the small pile in front of him and somehow just _knows_ before he even touches the pile that it’s going to be a King.

“Um, can we skip me?” Eddie asks with an innocent smile.

“No way,” Richie bellows with a laugh. “You’re trying to pass the torch to someone else when there’s only five cards left. No, sir, this is a game of trust and love.”

“Fine,” Eddie sighs. He looks directly at Richie as he slaps down the top card and everyone cheers when they see it. Eddie doesn’t even look, just shakes his head. He points at Richie with a shaky hand. “This is on you, loser.”

“Why me?!” Richie cries, hands flying to his chest.

“Because you keep picking on me! You _made_ the cards want me for their master!” Eddie accuses hotly. Stanley snickers at him and Eddie glares at him hotly from where he’s still leaning against Eddie’s face.

“Don’t forget to drink it with your left hand!” Mike cautions as Eddie reaches out for the glass with his right hand. He shoots Mike a grateful smile and switches hands.

“God, this is going to be a fucking disaster…” Eddie mumbles. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He looks over at Richie and nods at him, tipping the glass gently in his direction so the liquid doesn’t slosh out. “This is for you, Rich.” And then he starts drinking.

“Go, go, go!” Richie chants, ignoring the blush on his cheeks from Eddie’s declaration. “You got this, Eds!”

“C-C-C’mon, Eddie, _woo!_ ” Bill cheers excitedly. Eddie continues drinking steadily, eyes trained to the cracked ceiling to steady himself, and when he can finally take no more, he slams the cup down on the floor beneath him and wipes his mouth sloppily with his shirt sleeve, more sloppy than Richie’s ever seen him be. Eddie levels Richie a look and smirks.

“And that’s how you do it.” Everybody cheers wildly, buzzing with excitement.

“Eddie, that was incredible! You went for so long!” Stanley congratulates, highly impressed.

“Yeah, Eds, bang up job. Five stars all around,” Richie says in his high society Voice.

“Shut the fuck up, Richie,” Eddie sighs, rolling his eyes.

“I’m serious! That was a fucking masterpiece of a round! We went until there were _five_ cards left! Anything could’ve happened!” Richie crows.

“It’s not Russian Roulette, idiot, we’re not gonna _die_ ,” Eddie asserts.

“Not from bullets,” Richie smiles.

“I don’t know what you could possibly be referring to, but it doesn’t sound good,” Eddie sighs.

“The little death, Eds.”

“What’s the -- ”

“ _Hey, Eddie,_ didn’t you say you wanted to d-d-dance?” Bill stresses, interrupting them. From the absolutely lewd smirk on Richie’s face, he was more than ready to explain to Eddie what _the little death_ means.

“I do!” Eddie cries, a smile blooming on his face. “Rich, do you have your stereo down here?”

“Nah, it’s upstairs, along with all my tapes,” he says. “But I could go get it?”

“Oh, would you please?” Eddie begs with a small smile.

“As if I could ever say no to that face,” Richie grins back, reaching over to ruffle Eddie’s gelled hair. This time, Eddie lets him. He starts to stand up, pulling Beverly up with him. “C’mon, Bevs, up the stairs with us.”

“Ugh,” Beverly groans, making herself a dead weight and flopping onto the floor, breaking the connection between their bodies. Richie gasps in horror, pointing at her. Before he can even get a word in edgewise, Beverly puts up a hand to silence him. “I’ll take the shot. I’m not climbing those fucking stairs again connected to you by the stomach.”

“ _Tummy,_ Beverly!” Richie stresses, whining a bit. “And fine, I’ll go myself. Y’all will make sure she take her shot, won’t you?”

“Definitely, Rich,” Ben assures. “You go get the music.”

“Okay!” Richie bounces all the way over to the stairs and then takes them two at a time when he gets there, not wanting to miss any of the action. Ben looks at Beverly, who’s reaching for the bottle, and takes it from her. He smiles and puts a finger on his lips.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” he smiles. She smiles back and winks quickly. Ben’s stomach flips. The egg timer goes off in the corner of the room.

“A-ha!” Beverly crows. “New round! Who wants to pick first?”

After a goes of silence while they all disjoin, Mike unwrapping their legs together, Bill speaks up. “I-I will.” Bill digs his hand in the hat that Ben hands him and pulls out a napkin. He smiles at what he sees. “Beverly.”

“Oh, good,” she coos. She smiles at him and pulls out a paper from the other hat, which is when Richie comes barrelling down the stairs.

“What’d I miss?” he shouts.

“Bill and I got paired up together!” Beverly grins. “And we got…” She looks at the paper she pulled and groans. “Stomach _again_?”

“It must’ve been right on top, sorry, Bev,” Ben says, shooting her a sympathetic smile.

“Oh, it doesn’t say ‘tummy’?” Richie asks, leaning over to look. He hums. “Tragic.”

“ _Anyway_ , Eds, you’re up to choose,” Beverly says, sending a dark look over to Richie. Eddie puts his hand in the hat and gingerly pulls out a crumbled napkin. He unfolds it and smiles down at the scrawl before schooling his face into what he hopes is a disappointed frown. He looks up at Richie. “Looks like you and I are paired up. That’s the real tragedy.”

“Oh, I was always hopin’ I’d end up paired with you, Eds,” Richie swoons dramatically, putting down the stereo and migrating over to Eddie to tip his head on his shoulder. Eddie shrugs him off.

“God, you cretin, we’re not even paired up yet! Get off!” Richie laughs good-naturedly.

“Not paired up for _long_.” He sticks his hand in Stanley’s cap and drags out a napkin. He raises his eyebrows at what he sees and then quickly morphs his small, fond smile into a shit-eating grin. “Foreheads.”

“Oh,” Eddie responds, voice a bit small and faraway. “Okay.”

Richie can’t tell if Eddie is uncomfortable with this or not, so he decides jokes are the best route, as he always does, as he always will. “Well, I already have four eyes! Now, I have eight heads!” Okay, not his best work, but his jokes take a hit when he’s inebriated.

“That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“ _Four-head_ , Eds. _F_ _our - head._ Do you get it?” Richie smiles, holding up four of his fingers on both hands and then knocking them together.

“Oh - my - God. Yeah, I got it, Richie…” Eddie groans.

“Looks like we’re the group of three,” Stanley says, voice a bit hollow. “The forgotten.”

“Nobody says that,” Ben assures with an exaggerated pout, “but we feel it.”

Mike nods solemnly as Richie begins shouting. “No! Not forgotten! Never forgotten! How could you think that?!”

“Do you guys really think you’re forgotten?” Eddie frowns miserably.

“Of course not,” Mike rushes, snaking his arm around Eddie’s shoulders.

“Yeah, we’re just jokin’... Rich is just loud enough to make anyone forget the world around him,” Stanley grins.

“ _Hey!_ ” Richie cries, a little bit of genuine hurt in his voice that he’s unable to disguise due to all the alcohol he’s consumed tonight. Stanley smiles wider at him, tipping his head in Richie’s direction.

“It’s absolutely a compliment, Rich. You’re unforgettable.” Ben nods at him with a smile and both him and Eddie relax. Beverly’s nervous energy seems to quiet as well at the last two words. She believes that wholly and truly; none of them are at all forgettable.

“Yeah. Plus, nobody is forgotten in my house.” Bill winks at Richie.

“I _wish_ you lived here, Bill. You’d be a better parent than my mom or dad are put together…” Richie grumbles. Bill smiles at him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“L-Love you, Rich.” Richie grins back at him and then turns to the three boys who have drifted together.

“Okay, lovebugs, time to choosey-choose. Mikey, step right up and choose your fate!” Richie announces in a game show host Voice. Mike dips his hand in the hat and pulls out a napkin, and reading it brings a smile to his face as well.

“Elbows!”

“Oh, oh, I have a plan for this.” Ben hooks his arm through Stanley’s and encourages Stanley to do the same with Mike. They all smile at the other four, hooked together with no plans to ever come undone.

“God, it’s like The fuckin’ Wizard of Oz…” Richie mumbles with a grin. “Okay, music time!” He walks over to the egg timer and resets it before slipping a tape out of his pocket. He waves it at the group. “Richie’s Rockin’ Roundhouse.” They all laugh as he slips it in his stereo and presses PLAY.

The electric guitar of _Something To Talk About_ by Bonnie Raitt fills the room as Bill and Beverly are pulled together like magnets. They smile at each other, Bill’s smile shy and Beverly’s smile broad and excited. They begin swaying to the music as Beverly picks up Bill’s hand and starts leading him around the room with a laugh. Mike, Ben and Stanley all smile, and Ben and Mike swing around to hook their arms together as well. They begin dancing in a tightly-knit circle and their laughter mixes in with Beverly’s seamlessly. It’s music to Bill’s ears and he begins laughing, too, far too happy not to. He doesn’t care that it’s not as quiet and unassuming as his laugh usually is; this laugh is more of a honk, really, but with the alcohol paired with genuine joy, he can’t find it in him to feel embarrassed about it.

Eddie’s smiling, head turned down to the floor and eyes closed as he begins rocking back and forth to the beat, hands balled and elbows hooked up. Richie thinks he looks so beautiful, happier and more loose-limbed than he’s ever seen him when he turns around after fiddling with the bass-booster of his stereo for a moment. He smiles helplessly at the boy before walking over and touching Eddie’s fists. Eddie’s head snaps up, but the smile doesn’t fade as he touches his forehead to Richie’s softly. Eddie thinks for a moment about the fact that he’s doing this, has dreamed about being able to touch Richie freely and without remorse. He’s finally been given the chance to, he realizes, as he unclenches his hands and slowly braids his fingers together with Richie’s. He’s been so nervous the whole night about the prospect of being partnered with Richie, nervous and disappointed as hell when he wasn’t, but he knows now that there was never anything to be nervous about. Richie is his best friend, above all else. Above feelings, confusion, delusion and naivety, Richie Tozier and Eddie Kaspbrak are best friends. That is a fact of the universe that Eddie thinks could never be taken away from them; not by touch or alcohol or words. Eddie thinks they might be absolutely indestructible. In that moment, they are.

Eddie closes his eyes again, but Richie couldn’t stop staring even if the world were coming down in flames around them. Even if the stars rained down, even if pigs flew and rabbits roared, he would never have even for a second looked away from Eddie Kaspbrak in that moment. Richie thinks his beauty is absolutely fucking _radiant_. But the longer he looks at him, the closer he gets and the more Eddie’s shoulders relax and as his hands begin swaying with his movements, Richie thinks Eddie might be a light source on his own. Fire, maybe, burning low and hidden for so long, but able to shine and sing when he’s allowed to, when his anger strikes matches inside him, or he stands close enough to someone he’s comfortable enough with to be able to set the whole world aflame. Richie believes Eddie is the fire in the forest, and Richie is the creatures who live in the trees, terrified to run, terrified to even move, for fear they’ll burn. But the longer Richie has waited in the heat, the closer the fire got. And now, Richie is burning alive. He’d never choose a different way to go, even given the option. There is no better option, he thinks, than burning in the light of Eddie Kaspbrak.

 _They think we're lovers kept undercover_  
_I just ignore it, but they keep saying_  
_We laugh just a little too loud_  
_We stand just a little too close_  
_We stare just a little too long  
Maybe they're seeing something we don't, darlin'_

Eddie huffs out a laugh and Richie smirks at him. “What, Eds? What’s funny?” He says it in a whisper, a breath in the air around them, and Eddie wouldn’t have even heard him over the music if he wasn’t always paying laser-focused attention to Richie.

Eddie shakes his head, but it’s more of a slow roll of their foreheads together. He looks up from underneath his eyelashes at Richie and smirks back. “Nothin’.”

“Liar,” Richie murmurs. Eddie shrugs his shoulders and closes his eyes once more.

“I guess I just like this song.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” Richie questions, smile growing wider by the second.

“Mmm. S’nice.”

“Nice, huh?”

“Yeah.” He looks up again and his eyes burn into Richie’s. Richie’s breath catches and his smile falters. _No better option_ , Richie thinks. “Nice is a word for it.”

“Oh, yeah? You got any other words for it up in that big ol’ head?”

“My head is _not_ big!” Eddie huffs.

“Oh, my mistake. I guess that huge brain of yours has no place to go, then,” Richie theorizes.

“What are you implying, you duplicitous fucker?” Eddie asks, eyes narrowing. Richie barks out a laugh.

“I’m _implying_ that you’re intelligent, dummy.” Eddie smiles at this revelation.

“You think I’m smart?” Richie is the one to close his eyes then, and he hums in agreement.

“Very.”

“Even when I’m wasted?”

“Well, let’s not get carried away there, my love.” Eddie scoffs lightly. Richie is still smiling as Eddie thinks this over.

“No one’s ever thought I was intelligent before…” he marvels with a wondrous tone. Richie’s smile drops into a frown.

“I’ve thought you were smart since the day I met you. You were smart enough to befriend me, after all.” It’s the kind of joke that would usually make Eddie huff and hit his shoulder. But with Richie’s sweet breath fanning over his face, the soft tone in his voice, the joyous mood of the room, it all results in Eddie’s laughter. Richie thinks the sweetest sound he’s ever heard is Eddie laughing at one of his jokes.

“Yeah…” Eddie giggles. He sobers a bit then and watches as Richie opens his eyes. “Best move I think I’ve ever made.”

 _Let's give them something to talk about, baby_  
_A little mystery to figure out_  
_Let's give them something to talk about  
How about love, love, love, love?_

They continue to move to the song as Richie smiles down at Eddie whose eyes have slipped closed again when he remembers something.

“Hey. You never told me what other words you’d use for this song,” Richie accuses. Eddie’s eyes fly open and he stares long and hard at Richie for an extended, dragged out moment before smirking.

“Suppose you’re just gonna have to guess, then.” Richie groans lightly.

“You’re killin’ me, Kaspbrak. Give me somethin’ to work with!”

“I did. I said it was nice,” Eddie points out innocently.

“Yeah, I _bet_ you think it’s nice. My music taste is unparalleled.” Eddie giggles and then nods solemnly.

“Absolutely, Rich. Unparalleled.” Eddie still has a playful smile on his face as Richie shakes his head.

“Just dance, Eds,” Richie smiles.

“That I can do.”

 

After about a half hour of dancing, they all end up piled in heaps on the living room floor. All of them are exhausted from a long night of drinking and playing. All but Eddie.

He is whistling with his hands cupped in front of his face, knuckles hitting Richie’s lips occasionally. Richie wishes he could be more awake for such an incredible moment as Eddie’s fingers brushing against his mouth, but all he can do is smile, eyes closed.

“Any requests?” Eddie asks the group at large.

“Whitney Houston!” Ben calls out from behind him.

“Mm, that’s nice, but I only know _The Star-Spangled Banner_ ,” Eddie responds mildly.

“Since when are you so pa-pa-patriotic, Eds?” Bill asks from where he and Beverly are pressed together, lounging on the couch.

“Aren’t we all?”

“No!” The answer is resounding from all of them, even Richie, who has yet to open his eyes during this entire exchange.

“Fuck _The Star-Spangled Banner_!” Mike shouts. Stanley sticks his fist up in the air from beside him before dropping it back on his stomach.

“Wait, why did you even ask for requests if you can only do _The Star-Spangled Banner_?” Beverly asks.

“I wanted to be fair…” Eddie mumbles.

“I’m sorry, hon, but who the _fuck_ would request _The Star-Spangled Banner_?” Beverly laughs.

“Red-blooded Republicans, probably,” Eddie shrugs, hands still in front of his face and knuckles now lightly resting against Richie’s mouth.

“Do you see any here?” Richie asks, voice muffled a bit from Eddie’s hands, and he flings his arm up to gesture to the group. Eddie can feel Richie’s lips drag against his skin when he speaks and the movement feels so intimate that he sharply pulls his hands back from Richie’s face. His hands knock back into his own mouth hard.

“Ow, fuck,” Eddie curses, grumbling. Richie opens his eyes to check that Eddie is alright and they settle back closed when he finds Eddie glaring at him. “I didn’t ask for your input, Richie.”

“Everyone is always begging for my input. Aren’t you, guys?”

“No,” they all groan.

“Fine. You all have bad taste in inputs anyway,” Richie says mildly. “Eds, you gonna play us home or what?”

“Absolutely,” Eddie confirms with a nod. He whistles the song into his hands, careful not to touch Richie’s mouth now. It’s almost entirely unrecognizable as _The Star-Spangled Banner_ , but when he finishes, everyone claps and cheers raucously.

“Encore! Encore!” Ben shrieks.

“Aw, shucks, guys…” Eddie smiles shyly. Richie’s glad he opened his eyes during the song so he gets to see it. Eddie meets his eyes and begins giggling. “Do your glasses fog up like that a lot?” he asks, taking them off Richie’s face and wiping the lenses on his shirt.

“When there’s a lot of musical breathing near my face, definitely.”

“Hey! My musical breathing is unparalleled!” Eddie defends hotly.

“Absolutely, Eds. Magical, even,” Richie smirks.

“Okay, I feel I’m being mocked.”

“Never!” Richie gasps, touching his chest lightly. “Me? Mock the best hand-whistler this world has ever seen? Who would dare?”

“Okay, loser…” Eddie laughs, leaning back without breaking contact with Richie’s forehead to slip his glasses back on his face. “Better?” His voice comes out in a low whisper that has shivers running down Richie’s spine.

“Very much so. Now, I can see that cute, cute face.” He means to say it in a Voice, but it comes out far more fond and genuine than Eddie has ever heard him. Eddie blushes and looks away.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Gladly. Let me sleep.” Eddie laughs, rolling his forehead across Richie’s.

“Okay.” Richie closes his eyes, but the smile never leaves his face. Eventually, Eddie’s closes his eyes, too, smiling just as sweetly. He continues rolling his forehead, humming softly. They’re all laying down in the quiet, touching their various partners. Beverly and Bill are tangled together as they lay on the couch, stomachs pressed together, fast asleep. Ben, Stanley and Mike are all in various stages of losing consciousness, their arms all pressed together. And then there’s Eddie and Richie. They’re laying on their sides, facing one another. Their foreheads haven’t left each other’s since the moment they connected over an hour ago now, never wanting to break apart. No other parts of their bodies are touching, but the intimacy of the moment is still palpable.

“Hey, Eds?” Richie whispers. Eddie hums softly. “Was drinking a success? You think you’d do it again?” Richie is taking this question very seriously, knowing that he did his damnedest to make sure Eddie felt safe tonight. He hopes it was enough. Eddie smiles without opening his eyes, but Richie is now staring at him, eyes searching his face openly for any sign of discomfort.

“Yeah, Rich. A rousing success. I’d do it again.” Richie lets out a breath of relief and it fans over Eddie’s face. The scent of scotch, cigarettes, candy, and something sweeter than candy, something so innate to Richie that Eddie feels a bit dizzy suddenly, overwhelms his senses. Eddie digs his hand that was resting on the floor between them into the shag carpet and holds on, anchoring himself to the earth.

“That’s good. I-I’m so glad.” Richie’s voice sounds a bit strained and desperate, so Eddie opens his eyes to look at him, but only finds a dopey smile and a fire in his eyes that always seems to be there. Something inside Eddie tries to spark, tries to catch on the deadened matchbook inside himself that he keeps buried so a fire won’t start, spread and take them all down with it. The flame dies as quickly as it came though, and Eddie’s body relaxes, his hand coming undone from where it held tight to the carpet. _It’s just Richie_ , he thinks, his own drunken smile taking over his face in return. _There’s nothing to be afraid of._

The egg timer goes off then and they hear Beverly groan and throw something unidentifiable at it. “Shh, egg, we’re trying to sleep.” The remaining people awake, Richie, Eddie and Ben, all laugh as she settles back into Bill’s loose embrace. None of them break apart, so Richie feels it’s alright if he just closes his eyes and falls asleep like this. He doesn’t think it’s the alcohol that causes him to fall asleep within minutes. He thinks it has more to do with the safety and comfortability he feels surrounded by his friends, his skin touching Eddie’s, so close he can feel Eddie’s breath coming out in puffs against his mouth. Before he falls asleep, he reaches out and touches Eddie’s hand, simply resting his own on top of it. Eddie smiles and tangles their fingers together. They hold fast, even as they both slip into dreams filled with replayed laughter of the night they just shared, songs that mean more than either of them can admit out loud playing on repeat, and eyes smoldering, the brightly burning embers of their bleeding hearts.

 

* * *

 

It’s Friday of the second week in November and Richie is _stressed_. Midterms are fast approaching and he’s done jackshit to prepare for them. He knows he needs to study, but every time he looks at one of his textbooks, he feels anxiety well up inside him and he can’t bring himself to open them. He’s zoning out and daydreaming in class and having nightmares that he fails every test and flunks the 10th grade and needs to take it over again. He always wakes up covered in a cold sweat. He’s afraid he’s going to get sick; his immune system always fails him when he gets stressed out. That would be the worst case scenario because not only would he be missing valuable class time (that he isn’t even paying attention to anyway), but then Eddie wouldn’t hang out with him anymore. Any time spent with his best friend brings his stress levels down.

He’s in French class and sitting beside Beverly, tapping his pencil rhythmically against the desk. He’s half asleep and so nervous he’s physically shaking, but he still can’t bring himself to pay attention. It isn’t helping that he feels like jumping out of his skin with hyperactivity.

The pencil flies out of his hand and he curses quietly, leaning over to pick it up. “Okay, that’s it,” Beverly whispers. She raises her hand. “Ms. Jamil, can I go to the nurse?”

“Oh, sure, Beverly. Are you alright?” she asks worriedly. Beverly and Richie both like Ms. Jamil a lot - she’s a kind, young woman with a kickass accent and takes no prisoners when it comes to kids in her class goofing off. She has, however, been known to crack the occasional smile at Richie’s jokes.

“Sure, Mrs. Jamil. You know. _Girl stuff_ ,” she whispers conspiratorially. Everyone in the classroom aside from Richie and their teacher chokes out laughter. Beverly doesn’t even blink.

“Ah. Well, of course, Beverly. I’ll write you a hall pass.” Beverly stands up and grabs her backpack off the back of the chair. She catches Richie’s eye and taps the side pocket where he knows she keeps her cigarettes. _Ah. Smoke break._

He lets Beverly go and waits four minutes before raising his hand and asking to use the bathroom. She gestures to the laminated bathroom pass sitting on her desk and he grabs it and his backpack before hauling ass to his and Beverly’s designated smoking area. It’s an area covered in foliage by the treeline around the back of their school. There’s a large boulder a few paces in the woods - he and Beverly hide the metal can they put their cigarette butts in behind it.

He makes it to their spot and finds Beverly already started on her first cigarette, sitting on the boulder and leaning back against her palm.

“Started without me I see?” Richie asks scoldingly, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Terrible pal.”

“A terrible pal with great ideas. Join me, I’ll light you.” She holds out her lighter that has ironic Lisa Frank drawings emblazoned on it. He smiles at her and pulls out his pack of Parliaments from his back pocket. He leans in and lights up his cigarette before sucking on it and blowing up and out. He feels his hands begin to slow their shaking almost immediately. He sits down next to Beverly on the boulder and she shakes her head.

“Mandatory comment about how Parliaments will kill you,” she says.

“Mandatory response about how Parliaments are just as bad as Camels.” She laughs darkly, taking a drag.

“Sure,” she says, expelling the smoke as she speaks. “Now, you gonna tell me what the fuck has been going on with you since Halloween? Or even _at_ Halloween?” Richie groans. “Yeah, we all witnessed the end of the night. We weren’t _that_ smashed.”

“I dunno. It’s that. Eddie shit. It’s a whole _bunch_ of shit, really,” he sighs. She stubs out her cigarette and pulls out her chapstick, applying it before lighting up another cigarette. “We chainsmoking today?”

“When are we not? What kind of other shit’s going on, Rich? Anything serious?” she frowns.

“Yeah, kinda. I’ve been… Um, things are kinda shit with school right now. My grades are slipping. I’m getting _Bs_.” He shudders. “Horrendous.”

“Okay, well, Bs are respectable,” she laughs.

“Not for UC Davis or UCLA,” he says, eyes intense where to the point where Beverly thinks he might burn a hole into the tree in front of them.

“Rich, you haven’t even taken the PSATs yet. You’re fine to get a few Bs in your sophomore year, trust me,” she says soothingly. Beverly always manages to calm Richie down - she knows the right words to say with the right tone. Richie can barely choose one of those things, let alone both at once.

“Yeah, maybe…” There’s a comfortable, albeit weighted, silence afterwards. They continue smoking until Richie speaks again, quiet and pensive. “I’m thinking about contacting my dad.”

“Woah. Heavy,” Beverly says, head rearing back slightly in surprise. “Way to bury the lead, Tozier.”

“I mean, not _really_ a lead. I haven’t even looked into finding him yet… I don’t even know what I would say…”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” she says. He knows she’s talking about her own father, but the sentence is so vague that it just clouds Beverly’s family situation in more confusion. She continues on with the topic at hand as if she hadn’t just thrown Richie into the deep end of uncertainty. “Do you need help?”

“Help with what?”

“Finding him? He’s a dentist, right? I’m sure you could look up his name in the phone book and his practice would be on there.” Richie raises his eyebrows in shock, highly impressed with Beverly’s detective skills. He takes a drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out on the rock and throwing the butt out into the can. He takes out another cigarette and speaks around it as he lights it up.

“I’m impressed, Bee. Beverly Marsh: Detective Extraordinaire.” Beverly laughs kindly. He only ever calls her Bee when they’re alone, but she knows it’s his favorite name for her. She feels the same - nobody has ever given her a nickname that makes her feel quite as warm as Richie’s does. She’s certain that if she discussed this with Eddie, he’d feel the same about ‘Eds.’ Richie is special that way.

There’s another silence after that, but this time, Beverly is the one to break it. “We’ve been having money troubles.”

“Shit. What kind?” Richie asks, turning to her with his eyebrows knit together in concern.

“The kind where Auntie has to work 60 hours a week at Freese’s just to keep food on the table three meals a day,” she shrugs. She’s always been blase about her issues - all except one. They all seem to dwarf in comparison to what happened with her father. She wonders if she’ll always be desensitized to what the world throws at her after what he did to her. She knows no matter what happens in her life, the world could never treat her as poorly as her father did.

“Fuck, that’s so much. I’m sorry, Bee,” he says, knocking their knees together. “S’so shitty…”

“It’s fine. I’m just… thinking about getting a job. Maybe at the Aladdin or something? I don’t know… I think I might throttle every straight couple that deigns to make out in the theater, though, so maybe not the Aladdin.” Richie groans his agreement.

“I’m sure Auntie could get you a gig at Freese’s,” he offers. She turns to him slowly and blows smoke in his face with a flat look.

“You think I’d want to work in the same place as my guardian? I love my aunt to death, Rich, but even _we_ need a little space,” Beverly shudders. Richie laughs.

“Just tryna help,” he shrugs. She smiles at him and bumps their knees together the way Richie had done before, but this time she rests her leg against his. His knee bops up and down anxiously, but she knows it’s just residual nerves from opening up; Richie Tozier isn’t the best at talking about his feelings, but she never pushes him too hard to. She knows she’s lucky enough that Richie trusts her the way that he does.

And he _does_. Richie would entrust Beverly with his life if it came to that, and he’d fight like hell to protect her from anything and everyone who dares hurt her. He thinks back to the time around her father’s death - how withdrawn and jumpy she’d been. He doesn’t know what happened there, and it doesn’t seem like a run-of-the-mill parental death ( _Though what time is a father dying ever run of the mill?_ he asks himself), and Richie isn’t too keen on making assumptions about the situation. He tries not to think too hard about it - if Beverly wants to talk about it with him, she will, but until then, Richie is going to watch her grow and change and flourish in her new environment with her aunt and hope that whatever _did_ happen with her father, it doesn’t negatively affect her too often.

He takes a drag as he observes her out of the corner of his eye. She’s holding her third cigarette and toying with her tube of chapstick in the other hand, rolling it from finger to finger like a drumstick - he knows she likes to keep her hands busy. There’s a lot of things she does that remind him of himself, and he realizes that, if he were to like girls the way he’s been told he’s supposed to, he would absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt, like Beverly. She’s cool and collected and composed and kind and interesting and always lets him bum cigarettes when he runs out, even when she’s on her last one. But as he turns to look at her fully, he feels nothing but a rush of adoration and affection to be worthy of her companionship. It feels akin to what he knows he should feel for his biological sister, Jess - he sometimes thinks that Beverly is a better sibling to him than Jess has been since they were very young. He looks at her lips around the cigarette, chapped and full just like his, and feels nothing. Nothing at all. He knows he should, knows it isn’t exactly common within their little group to feel nothing when looking at Beverly, but he does. He feels nothing. He realizes then that that’s okay. He’s okay. He and Beverly are both going to be okay.

He slings his arm around her shoulders comfortably, casually, chastely, and he is all at once glad that he doesn’t like her the way that the world tells him he should. He thinks she has enough to deal with than the kind of teasing affection Richie displays when he _does_ feel something. She’s got enough shit on her plate. He realizes that he’s been treating Beverly a similar way to Eddie their whole lives, trying to convince himself that he likes Beverly the same way he does Eddie. But he doesn’t. Beverly is his _friend_. His _best fucking friend_. His _sister_. And he’d never give away the special space she’s carved in his heart for anything.

 

* * *

 

Thanksgiving Day for Richie Tozier is not as much of a blood bath as he was expecting. His mother drinks steadily and quietly at the head of their table while his sister flips through Seventeen Magazine across from him. They ordered Chinese food instead of cooking that day because his mother had tried to make mashed potatoes that afternoon and failed miserably, so Richie suggests they get take out at the one place open on Thanksgiving Day in Derry. She shrugs and goes to the liquor cabinet that she rarely remembers to lock and pulls out a bottle of whiskey. Richie sighs and walks out of the room, going to find the phone to call the chinese buffet. He wishes he could simply go there with his friends and thinks about dialing Bill’s home phone number as he looks at the receiver, but he knows Terri and Zack would never allow Bill to go out on such a major holiday. It’s a mystery as to how his own mother got off work today, usually opting to take holiday pay at the 24-hour diner in town. _Perhaps, she wants to be a real family,_ Richie thinks before quickly stomping down that thought. _Of course she doesn’t, Richie. She will never change._

All day, however, all Richie can think about is the letter he sent to his father a week and a half ago that Beverly helped him draft. She told him short and simple would be best, so that's what he did. He wrote it in the library with her so that his mother and Jess wouldn’t find it.

_Dad,_

_I’d like to see you. I know you have your own family now, but I’ll be around all of Thanksgiving Day. My address is on the envelope in case you’ve forgotten. Please come see me._

_Your son,  
_ _Richie Tozier_

He had put it in the mail himself, swiping a stamp from the front office of the school. It had been nerve-wracking, watching the letter slip into the open slot, knowing he could never get it back. His plea, words that felt foreign to write as well as read, was out in the world. His fear and abandonment issues were sent out through the postal system. _How formal_ , he thought at the time. He didn’t write about how he is harboring a lot of guilt, a lot of loss, but he figured he’d be able to tell his father all of that if he comes.

But as the day goes on and night falls with no word from his father, he wonders if he had made a mistake in contacting him. Richie had not told his mother or Jess that he had sent that letter to Wentworth, so he simply cleans up dinner and does the dishes as his mother retreats to her bedroom with the bottle of jack in tow and Jess slams the door shut, turning her stereo on loud and blasting an abhorrent pop song. Richie wonders if this is doomed to be his life as he wipes his hands on his black jeans and trudges upstairs. He settles in for what he assumes will be a lonely, uneventful night. He supposes that’s better than the alternative in his house.

He thinks he hears a knock on the door over his Walkman, but he’s not certain until he hears the high-pitched scream of his sister from downstairs. He immediately throws off his headphones and runs down the stairs, grabbing onto the banister and jumping down off the landing. He sees Jess tear through the house, screeching to the man at the door.

“I’ll be back when I look more presentable!” she claims shrilly before the door of her room slams shut. Richie knows she had never changed out of her pajamas that day and definitely hadn’t put any makeup on, something she never goes in public without. Richie rushes through the house, assuming his mother is too drunk to hear Jess, and he stops short when he sees his father standing in the threshold of his house.

“Hi, Richard,” Wentworth says plainly. “You look well.”

“My name is Richie,” he snaps, stalking over to his father, looking similarly to what he remembers but not entirely. The man is wearing a suit and tie, something he never used to do, and has far more wrinkles than he did in Richie’s memory. He is still wearing that same staunch frown, though, and Richie wants to laugh at the sight. He doesn’t. “I wrote that in the letter. Don’t call me Richard.”

His father looks down at his dress shoes for a moment before looking back up at Richie. “I don’t want to fight. Honestly.”

“Clearly,” Richie snorts. His father quirks his eyebrows in confusion. “You left!” Richie shouts, throwing his hands up in anger. “You left instead of fighting for our family!”

“I -- I had to leave, Richie.” He says Richie’s name like it’s leaving his mouth through a cheese grater, all rough and in pieces. “I hoped you would understand that by now.”

“No, dad. You had to stay. And how could I understand when you never explained why to me?” Richie wants desperately to break eye contact, but he refuses. He knows he's not as tall as his father, but he tries to make himself bigger and tower over him in presence instead. He looks at him dead in the eye, schooling his face to be completely void of emotion, before speaking again. “What did I do?”

“What?” Wentworth breathes, clearly not expecting this.

“Why did you leave? What did I do that was so wrong?” he asks, voice all iron and steel. He’s been keeping so much guilt inside himself for so long, but he knows if he shows emotion, his father will never respect what he has to say. He remembers that much about him. Wentworth starts shaking his head quickly, even as Richie is speaking.

“No, no, Richa--Richie, you misunderstand. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t handle being part of a family back then.”

“What, you needed to spread your wings? Was our shitty little a-frame bi-level not good enough for your high-class dentistry standards? You needed better than us, so you left? That it?” Richie challenges, sneering.

Wentworth’s shoulders slump in defeat. “It sounds so silly when you say it.”

“Because it _was,_ dad. It is. You never contacted us, ever. You never even left a note - you just packed your shit in a bag and left while Jess and I were at school. How is that _supposed_ to make a hyperactive six-year-old boy feel? You didn’t want us. You didn’t want me.” Richie is on the verge of tears now, but he holds them back, knowing his father would get the upper hand if he lets them fall. He remembers his father yelling at him as a kid. _Crying is for infants and toddlers, Richard. You’re grown now. Start acting like it._ He still feels so small standing in front of his father, even at age 15.

“Richie, you were just a child.”

“Yeah, maybe. But I’m not now, am I?” Richie spits, gesturing to his own lanky body, and Wentworth gets a good look at him for the first time since he came, as if he’s seeing him for the very first time. It might as well be to Richie; he feels as if he’s standing in front of a stranger.

“No. I suppose you’re not.” Wentworth looks away, breaks eye contact, and Richie feels that small victory spread through him like a wildfire.

“How’s the new family? Shitty, I presume?” Wentworth squares his shoulders at the mention of his new family and the perceived attack against them, as if he’s proud of them and ready to fight in their honor. Richie doesn’t fight the urge to roll his eyes.

“They’re fine. And how… How are you doing? You got a girlfriend?” It looks as if it’s causing him physical pain to ask Richie this and Richie figures his father hates their family enough, why not be honest and make him hate them more for raising a gay son, even if they don’t know they did so?

“No. No _boyfriend_ either.” His father looks back up at Richie sharply.

“You’re…” he tries carefully, unable to get the rest of his sentence out.

“Gay? Yeah. Queer as a three dollar bill, dad. Bet you’re glad you didn’t stay now.” Wentworth looks away again, eyes shifting around, as if looking for an escape. He almost unconsciously takes a step backwards, away from Richie, and Richie knows that will hurt like a bitch later on when he thinks about it, but right now, a twisted smile blooms on his face and all he can think is _Good. Go._

Jess rushes out of her room then, looking far too pristine for the fact that she will be staying in her house tonight. Wentworth looks supremely uncomfortable before he even sees her. She snorts behind Richie and he turns.

“What’d you do now, Toad? I leave you alone with dad for five minutes and you scare him away before he even has a chance to apologize?”

“Oh, please…” Richie grumbles sarcastically under his breath. He had almost pitied Jess when he saw her, feeling guilty that she got all made up just for this sorry excuse of a man, but after that comment, he doesn’t feel sorry for her at all. _I don’t know why I even try,_ Richie thinks to himself angrily.

“That’s what you came to do, right, dad? Apologize for leaving?” Jess looks honestly hopeful and excited when she turns to their father and the expression makes her looks years younger. Richie can almost see the good in her shining through past the layers of cruelty she uses to bury it. Richie wonders briefly if he will ever stop giving his sister and his mother chance after chance to redeem themselves, if he will ever stop putting himself in the position to be hurt by them.

“No, I-I came to talk to Richie.” Her face contorts in anger but their father attempts to continue on. “He contacted me and I -- ”

“He did _what_?” Jess demands, whipping to face Richie where she’s now standing next to him. Richie faces her head on, knowing backing down from this would be far worse than cowering. Richie Tozier doesn’t back down.

“I contacted him, Jess. You could’ve any time you wanted, he’s a pretty famous dentist in the Portland area. I just sent a letter to his office. Pretty simple. Even _you_ could’ve done it.” Jess’ face is turning red, but before she can even open her mouth to say anything, they both hear the quick patter of feet coming from across the house.

“Went? Wentworth?” Richie smirks back at his father whose eyes are widening at the thought of facing his ex-wife.

“Enjoy the show, dad,” Richie smirks, cruelty in his expression. “This is what you turned her into. This is what you left us with.”

“Went!” Maggie yells, rounding the corner, and she pushes both Jess and Richie into the walls of the foyer to stumble towards him. Richie snorts but says nothing to his father’s pleading expression as she throws her arms around his neck. “Oh, Went, I always knew you’d come home.”

“I’m not,” Wentworth says firmly, trying to extricate himself from her grasp, but she holds steady. “I -- Maggie, you smell like whiskey - have you been _drinking_?” Both Jess and Richie laugh, the latter far more cruelly than the other.

“Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner!” Richie calls out in his game show host Voice. Wentworth pulls away in confusion.

“But you have to take care of Richie. He’s only 15 years old.”

“Oh, please,” Maggie laughs with a flip of her hand. “He can take care of himself.”

Wentworth shakes his head gravely and then looks Richie in the eyes. Richie wishes for a brief moment he saw regret there, but all he sees is pity. _You can keep your pity, asshole_ , Richie thinks. _I’m just fine without you._ “I’m going to have to get going now.”

“No! Wentworth!” Maggie cries, words a bit slurred. “You have to stay! I-I can’t do this on my own. I can’t raise him.” Richie rolls his eyes before simply raising an eyebrow in his father’s direction.

Wentworth takes a deep breath and looks at her once more, gripping her shoulders tightly and shaking her a bit with the force of his words. “You have to.”

And then, he turns and leaves, just like he did nine years ago. Richie wishes he felt better, more at peace, but he doesn’t. He’s still just as angry, still just as bitter, and Wentworth leaves a family behind far more broken than it was the last time he saw it.

As his car starts up from in front of the Tozier house and drives away, Maggie whirls around to her son, face twisted in anger. “ _What did you do?_ ” she growls.

Richie smiles almost serenely at her, refusing to drop his poker face. _Of course she’d blame me_ , Richie thinks. _Of course she thinks him leaving is my fault. Again._ “What I needed to.”

And he slips out the door where his father once came, shutting the door quietly behind him. He unchains his bicycle from the garage and goes to take off on it, but makes the mistake of looking back at his house. Jess and Maggie are in the now open doorway, and Maggie is yelling at him.

“Where are you going?” Richie doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know yet. He just knows he can’t be here. With tears beginning to stream down his face now that he’s finally alone, he takes off down the street towards the center of town.

 _I have nowhere to go,_ he thinks, almost numb to the same thought he’s had so many times before. _I have no safe place_. And then, at the words _safe place_ , he somehow thinks of Eddie Kaspbrak, voice teasing and face pinched and angry almost all the time, but soft when Richie needs him the most. He determinedly nods his head at the dark street in front of him and wipes his cheeks. He leans up off the seat of his bike and whizzes down the empty streets of Derry. _Eddie will know what to do,_ he thinks, wind whipping through his curls and pushing them out of his face. _He always does._

 

* * *

 

Eddie only finds out his three aunts, Beatrice, Daisy and Maya, are coming into town on that fateful Thanksgiving Day earlier that afternoon as he helps his mother cook silently. Sonia Kaspbrak had decided it wasn’t pertinent to discuss this detail with Eddie until the day of when Eddie asks why they’re making so much food. Eddie excuses himself to hurriedly iron his nicest dress shirt and shower when she informs him that his three estranged aunts are coming to visit for the day, meticulously scrubbing every inch of himself before he hears the doorbell downstairs.

His aunts are… kind. Kinder than he’d have ever expected anyone from his family to be. But he tells himself not to be shocked when he realizes that these are not his mother’s sisters but in fact his father’s. And then, all of a sudden, it dawns on Eddie as he smiles at them in the doorway, strained and nervous, why these three names weren’t household occurrences - his mother refuses to ever discuss anything to do with Eddie’s father. Some of it makes sense, of course: the pain and heartbreak his mother had went through when his father died when Eddie was five years old had caused her to shut down. The things he doesn’t understand, however, are why she refuses to talk about Eddie’s father, Shawn, with him and why there are no photos of him in the house at all. He has a few stored in his closet, knowing that if his mother ever saw them, she’d pitch the biggest fit he’s ever seen.

His aunts look so excited to see Sonia and Eddie. They greet them at the door, but his mother is uncharacteristically cold to them, refusing to even touch them and instructing Eddie not to either, saying he might catch something from them. Daisy looks heartbroken, utterly devastated, at that, Beatrice looks very confused, and Maya seems absolutely furious. Eddie takes a good long look at Maya, clearly the oldest, and realizes that she looks so similar to his father that they have to be fraternal twins. Eddie cannot stop staring and when Maya’s eyes catch his, the anger out of them melts away and she smiles. He tentatively smiles back and ushers them into the dining room where they have dinner waiting.

Dinner is a deadly silent affair up until about twenty minutes in.

“Aunt Beatrice, would you pass the gravy?” Eddie asks quietly. She looks at him kindly as she does.

“Call me Aunt Bea, love,” she says from across the table. He nods. Her presence is oddly calming in a way that Eddie can’t name or place, and it makes him nervous due to the fact that his mother is watching him like a hawk. He doesn’t know how to be calm around her. His hands start to shake as he takes the china gravy boat and when he tries to pour it over his helping of mashed potatoes, he accidentally spills it on his nice, clean, white shirt instead.

The spicket clatters to the table when he drops it.

“Eddie!” his mother roars, but he ignores her as he begins gasping for air immediately, obsessively dabbing himself with the cloth napkin beside his plate. “Eddie Bear, where’s your inhaler?”

“Not -- Not… here. My room,” he chokes out.

“Why is that, Eddie?” Sonia asks sharply. “It should be on you at all times.”

“Sonia, come on, the boy is clearly panicking, leave him -- ” Sonia looks over at Beatrice quickly, eyes burning with a fire none of the sisters have ever seen in their sister-in-law before: anger. It startles Beatrice enough to cut her own sentence off and stay silent.

“Go get it, Eddie.”

“I’m okay, Mommy, I -- ”

“Now, Eddie.” Eddie rushes up the stairs and rips open his desk drawer, feeling around for his aspirator until he finds it, but he doesn’t trigger it until he gets back in view of his mother, knowing she wouldn’t believe he did it unless she saw him. He does two consecutive blasts in a row standing in front of her and she nods curtly. Eddie feels his anxiety lessen immediately, not even from the taste of camphor, but from his mother’s approval, however disdainful it may be. Daisy’s brow furrows as she watches Eddie.

“Eddie, honey, I’m a pediatrician, so I deal with asthma a lot, and you’re supposed to wait thirty seconds after each blast of your inhaler and hold your breath for ten seconds when you trigger it.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway, it’s not -- ” Eddie looks over at his mother who has leveled him with a look so dark and intense that the last word comes out meek and scared. “...real.”

“It’s not?” Beatrice asks, head tilting in confusion.

“No. My pills, the inhaler, they’re placebos.” He says the word carefully, mouth feeling odd and unreal around the word even after three years of knowing it. He doesn’t say it often. He had only uttered it to his friends when he had told them that his pills and inhaler were fake and then never mentioned it again, especially not to his mother, knowing it would only cause another colossal fight. When he had been told harshly by Greta Bowie at the drugstore that his whole life was a lie, he started looking at his mother differently. He’s less scared of her, avoids her more directly now. He knows she can see it and it just makes her hold on even tighter. He doesn’t take his pills anymore, all of them still sitting like a crime scene on the table in the living room. His mother consistently fills the scripts even though she knows Eddie doesn’t take them unless she tells him to directly. He doesn’t keep his inhaler on him even though his mother still insists he needs it. Sometimes, he himself feels he still does as well. _She’s trained me well_ , Eddie thinks, refusing to make eye contact with his glowering mother.

“Oh,” Beatrice says, brow furrowing. “But -- ”

“Eddie, go clean yourself off,” Maya says. Her voice is kind but her eyes are like steel when they rest on his mother. “You’re clearly not in any emotional state to finish dinner. We’ll wrap it up for you and leave it in the fridge. Thanksgiving leftovers are even better than the meal itself.” She winks in a friendly manner and Eddie doesn’t know why he feels eased by that. Perhaps, it’s because the action reminds him of Beverly. It’s a strange feeling, being at all at ease around his mother.

“But -- ”

“It’s okay, Eddie,” Maya smiles. “Really. Go wash up. We’ll be alright down here.” She looks back at Sonia and her smile turns sharp and dangerous. “Just us girls. Right, Sonia?” Eddie’s mother is silent, now staring at her plate in front of her. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning when you wake up, alright?”

Eddie nods, grabbing a towel from the kitchen as he quickly heads upstairs. He shuts his door and immediately begins furiously rubbing at the large brown stain on his white button-down. His breathing starts to come in a bit faster at the thought that he might never get it out, that he’s ruined it, he’s ruined everything. He startles from a sudden noise at his window, and when he looks up, he sees Richie balancing on the roof underneath his window.

“Eds, will ya let me in?” Richie asks, voice muffled from the glass between them. Eddie feels a bit of his nervousness drain out of him at the familiar, insistent, jeering voice of Richie Tozier. Eddie sighs and opens his window. “Man, it’s fuckin’ freezing out here - I froze my balls off biking over. My poor future children,” he laments, shivering. He looks over at Eddie, who notices that Richie’s cheeks and nose are red and ruddy. He chalks it up to the cold Richie is whining about. “Oh, I’m sorry, _our_ future children.”

“Richie, what are you doing here?” Eddie sighs, looking back down at his shirt, continuing to angrily dab at it with the towel.

“Parents were a fuckin’ trip, so I -- woah, hey, hey, what happened here?” Richie asks, voice immediately turning soothing and crowding Eddie’s space. The close proximity between them soothes Eddie’s nerves more than anything else and he hates himself even more than he already had for the spill for that. Richie is his best friend, he shouldn’t be feeling this way, he _knows_ that. His anxiety spikes once again, his breathing coming in faster.

“I -- spilled.”

“I see that, my love.” Richie giggles slightly, and that sound combined with the pet name makes Eddie want to melt into the floor. “Why don’t you change and we can wash this mess in the bathroom sink. Your mom up here?”

“No, she and my -- aunts, they’re downstairs,” Eddie gasps, wishing he hadn’t left his aspirator with his mother, despite what his Aunt Daisy told him about how to properly use them.

“Great. C’mon, tough guy, let’s go.” Richie guides him over to the dresser with a hand on the small of his back. Eddie feels the touch burn him through the thin layer he’s wearing, hyper-aware of Richie’s closeness. He grabs a sleeping shirt out of his dresser and goes to start unbuttoning his shirt, but only gets about halfway before looking back up at Richie who is staring down at him, eyes big and wide and concerned.

“You gonna turn?” Eddie knows he’s being ridiculous, that Richie and the others have seen him in only his underwear at the quarry every summer since they were children, but the act of undressing in the darkness with Richie standing as closely as he is feels a bit too intimate for Eddie to take.

“Oh! Yeah, yeah, sorry,” Richie rushes, spinning on his heel. He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _was worried_ , face heating up at the memory of Eddie looking up at him from underneath his eyelashes, shirt half-unbuttoned in his fingers, chest exposed. Eddie smiles at Richie’s admission, shaking his head as he takes off his shirt completely, slipping it off his narrow shoulders. He folds it and puts it on the ground between them, despite the fact that they’re about to wash it. He quickly throws on the large shirt that he thinks once belonged to Bill and picks up the dirtied one.

“Okay,” Eddie says quietly. Richie turns back around and smiles at him, hoping the blush on his cheeks has died down or that Eddie can’t see it in the darkness.

“All set?” Eddie nods and they exit his room together, going out into the hallway and quietly slipping into the bathroom. Eddie sighs once they close the door.

“We don’t have many cleaning supplies in here. At least, not for _shirts_ ,” Eddie sighs. Richie nods.

“Well, we’ll just have to make due with soap and water, then, won’t we?” Eddie smiles at him from underneath his eyelashes and Richie thinks this view might be even better, with Eddie’s large shirt slipping from around his shoulder and exposing one of his collarbones, because Eddie is more comfortable now. Richie smiles back, glad to be able to focus on something other than the horror that was his Thanksgiving. Taking care of Eddie is something that he will always want to do, no matter how he’s feeling, no matter what state he’s in.

They’re still in the bathroom, rubbing at the shirt together under warm water, fingers brushing against each other’s and blushing down at the stain, when Richie hears the familiar sound of yelling coming from downstairs. He attempts to ignore it, but then Eddie looks up sharply and over at Richie, their eyes locking and the color draining from his face.

Eddie abandons the shirt and grabs Richie’s hand, sneaking out into the hallway and sitting at the top of the staircase. Richie fits snugly beside him. No one is paying any mind to anything happening outside the kitchen, only their nuclear argument. It’s clearly already in full-swing, the volume has just recently been raised to full, and Eddie can hear his aunts pleading with his mother.

“This isn’t how you should be raising him!” Maya yells, and Eddie realizes they’re talking about _him_. His blood runs cold, both glad and horrified that Richie will hear this as well. “Shawn would never want this and you _know_ that. You’re disparaging his memory by treating Eddie this way, Sonia. And, God, where are the pictures?”

“Yeah, Sonia, c’mon,” Beatrice pleads. “This isn’t _normal_. None of this is _normal_ , you have to know that. The house is barren of Shawn’s memory and I’m sure that’s only adding to Eddie’s clear signs of anxiet--”

“Eddie does _not_ have anxiety, Baby Bea!” Sonia shrills, angry at herself for the nickname that slipped out without her permission. Beatrice looks equally horrified that Sonia even remembers what Shawn called her all those years ago. Eddie’s breath gets caught in his throat and Richie puts his hand on Eddie’s. The shaking boy immediately stills under his touch and Eddie goes from having mixed feelings that Richie is here with him to being simply grateful. “He has _asthma._ Just because you’re some quack shrink doesn’t mean you can go putting ideas in my child’s head. That’s all your _profession_ is good for anyway.”

Daisy snorts, clapping slowly as Beatrice attempts not to cower at the use of her childhood nickname at the same time as her profession is so brutally eviscerated by a woman she once respected so highly. “Wow, Sonia. Low, even for you. I’m actually impressed. Now say that again, but without the obvious overtone of hypocrisy please.”

“I won’t take orders from a _child_ ,” Sonia barks.

“Sonia, what the hell? I’m not a child, I’m a _doctor_.” Daisy looks at Sonia, eyes confused and wild. “You used to love me, I know you did. You taught me how to drive for shit’s sake. Do you even remember any of that? Of the life we all shared together? Of Shawn and our family? The three of us thought you and Shawn were forever.”

“We... We were supposed to be.” Eddie’s mother’s voice is so low and defeated that Richie and him nearly miss what she says.

“So, God, keep some photos of him around. Let Eddie know who his father was. He deserves that. You both do.” Sonia looks between them all, eyes finally landing on Maya. Even after all these years and the stress of time and aging, Sonia can still see so much of Shawn in her, in both looks and spirit. His twin flame. Sonia could never compare and she knew that, was fine with that, allowed Shawn’s sisters into her heart anyway just as she did Shawn. And then blocked them all out just like she did Shawn’s memory when he passed away. Sonia sees the same amount of Shawn in Eddie every time she sees him. Sometimes it’s hard to even look at him knowing she’ll see Shawn’s soulful brown eyes staring back.

“Why did you even come if all you were going to do was disagree with my parenting and how I remember my husband?” Sonia asks defiantly after a long pause.

“To stop you,” Maya says flatly, voice void of emotion. It’s exactly how Shawn sounded towards the end, so numb and cold and empty, and that’s what finally causes Sonia to break. A part of her ironclad defenses that she keeps so perfectly crafted, walls and towers erected to stop anyone and anything from hurting her, splinters and shatters. Her face, however, shows none of that, keeping perfectly still, twisted in disgust and anger just as it was before.

“I’d like you to leave,” Sonia says, voice even and unwavering. Beatrice lets out a sigh of defeat.

“Let us at least say goodbye to Eddie, then,” Beatrice pleads.

“No. He needs his rest. Don’t wake him.”

“Come on, Sonia, he’s our nephew. We might -- ” Daisy takes a shuddering breath before continuing. “Please, we might not see him again after this.”

“Oh, you won’t,” Sonia warns dangerously. There’s a silence as the three sisters realize the magnitude of Sonia’s abuse, her manipulation, her control of Eddie. They all remember how Shawn wanted Eddie to grow up to be just like him, a little firecracker, a rebel. It seems to the sisters that Sonia has completely destroyed that dream.

“Fine. Quickly. You have five minutes,” Eddie’s mother says. Eddie quickly rushes up the stairs and down the hallway, pulling Richie with him with the hand he’s still holding. He drags him into his room and quietly shuts the door behind them. Eddie whips his head around the room, realizing there’s not enough time for Richie to make his escape - and not at all _wanting_ Richie to go - before he spots the closed closet door.

“Get in the closet!” Eddie begs, pushing Richie towards the door. Richie digs his heels into the carpet.

“ _What?_ ”

“Get in the closet! My aunts are coming, you heard them! Hurry!”

Richie grumbles something about promising himself he’d never go back in the closet again, but does as he’s told, shutting the door behind himself while Eddie slips underneath the several blankets he uses due to the chill of his room in the November cold, especially considering he and Richie never shut the window from when Richie snuck in half an hour ago. He hears a soft knock at his door and thinks about masking his voice with sleep before deciding, no, his aunts fought for him. They deserve at least an ounce of the truth.

“Come in,” Eddie says, voice clear. He sits up and his aunts come into his room, closing the door once they’re all inside.

“Eddie,” Beatrice says, voice thick with emotion and regret, “we have to go.”

“Oh,” Eddie sighs, voice small. “Okay.”

“We’re sorry, Eddie, it’s just that your mother doesn’t want us to be here anym--”

“ _Maya!_ ” Daisy hisses. “I thought we were going to be discreet!”

“ _You_ were going to be discreet, _I_ am going to tell this 15-year-old boy the truth he deserves to hear.” Maya looks from Daisy back to Eddie and her eyes immediately soften. “Eddie, we’re sorry, but Sonia isn’t ready to hear the hard truth yet.”

“Truth about what?” Eddie asks, head cocking.

“The truth about… how she raised you,” Daisy says delicately.

“How is that?” Eddie asks, needing to hear the word _abuse_ from their mouths to make it real for him. Maya and Daisy both look to Beatrice.

“Eddie, your father loved you _so_ much. You know that, right?” Beatrice asks, voice kind and gentle. “The… The abuse your mother puts you through doesn’t change that.”

Eddie shudders at the word he’d been so desperately avoiding for years and opens his mouth to answer, but before any sound escapes him, they all hear a crash in the closet and the three sisters whip around to face the closed door. Eddie closes his eyes in frustration and shakes his head slowly. Maya turns back to Eddie slowly, a small smile on her face.

“Eddie Kaspbrak, do you have a _girl_ in that closet?”

“Not exactly…” Eddie grumbles.

“Hey! I heard that! I’m _very_ pretty, you know!” Richie shouts from the closet.

“Shut up, Trashmouth!” Eddie calls back hotly. Beatrice opens the closet door and Richie comes tumbling out, holding a trophy in each hand.

“A boy. You have a _boy_ in the closet,” Daisy deadpans. Maya smiles fully at the boy she’s looking at, wearing a tattered jean jacket that doesn’t look at all weather appropriate and curly black hair. He smiles back up at her brightly before she turns to Eddie, appraising him. _Hm_ , she thinks, remembering the fact that there are no photos of her twin up in this house, but there is certainly a cross where one used to be. _A firecracker. A little rebel. Maybe the dream of little Shawn is still alive._

“It’s not -- !”

“Eds, I thought you told me you were bad at bowling.” Daisy turns to Beatrice. _Eds?_ she mouths. Beatrice shrugs.

“Don’t call me that. And I am. It’s a participation trophy,” Eddie says, sticking his chest out proudly. “I did my best and that’s what matters.”

“Cute, honey.” Maya’s eyes light up as she looks back down at Richie who is still sprawled out on the ground in front of the closet.

“Not your honey.”

“Not _yet_ ,” Richie shoots back, smirking. Eddie rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, fending off the returning smile that threatens to take over his features.

“So,” Maya smirks, looking far too similarly to Richie at the moment for Eddie’s liking. “Who _is_ this exactly, Eddie?” Eddie unfolds his arms. They hang limply at his sides for a moment, fish-mouthing at Maya before he gestures to his aunts.

“Um, Richie, these are my aunts, Bea, Daisy and Maya. Guys, this is Richie.” Richie waves from the ground.

“Lovely to meet you fine, beautiful women. I can finally see where Eddie gets his good looks from.” Eddie’s eyes widen as he rushes to correct his friend, but the three of them are already laughing hysterically. Maya is folded over, slapping her knee, laughing so hard there is no sound coming out of her mouth. Richie’s eyes light up in glee. _Oh, no,_ Eddie thinks. _The_ last _thing Richie needs is for someone to laugh at that kind of joke._

“Eddie!” Maya squeals in delight. “This boy is a fucking riot!”

“No, Aunt Maya, don’t encourage him,” Eddie whines. “He’s like a puppy; he needs to be reprimanded when he does something bad.”

“And what’s so bad about complimenting your boyfriend?” Beatrice asks, smile teasing but voice serious, trying to convey that they’re all fine with his sexuality, completely naive to Eddie’s true feelings or his and Richie’s real relationship status. Eddie’s eyes widen as he begins sputtering and Richie bursts out laughing at his reaction.

“No! No, no, Richie is _not_ my boyfriend! He’s just -- ! My pal!” Daisy raises an eyebrow at that but says nothing. Maya, however, cannot keep her mouth shut about the entire situation, enjoying herself far too much.

“Your _pal_?” Maya questions, laughter coloring her tone. “Sure, I believe that.” Richie’s face lights up, and Daisy sees that, quiet in most situations but always paying close attention to her surroundings. She wonders if the true nature of the situation is not the one Eddie is spinning.

“Okay, Aunt Maya, it was _sure_ nice to have you here, but didn’t you say you have to be going?” Eddie laughs, high-pitched and nervous. Richie smiles at him, clumsily getting up from the floor and rushing over to help Eddie where he’s tangled himself in the blankets and sheets in his rushed attempt to get up himself. Eddie accepts his assistance on instinct alone, grabbing Richie’s forearms to steady himself before he pitches forward, momentarily forgetting that there are witnesses to this very damning moment. Richie chuckles to himself murmuring _clumsy boy_ under his breath, just for Eddie, and Eddie feels a bit better about the entire situation, knowing nothing has truly changed. He doesn’t think he could handle that - not right now. Once Eddie is standing, he looks at all of his aunts who are sharing similarly amused looks.

“Your pal,” Maya insists, face schooled suddenly to be faux-serious. “Definitely.”

“Yep!” Eddie assures, voice pitched higher than he’s sure he’s heard it since age 12. “Definitely!”

“Your _pal_?” Richie gasps, mock-offended. He looks back at Eddie’s aunts, throwing his arm casually around Eddie shoulders and pulls Eddie’s rigid body into his side, as he’s done hundreds of times. The action to Eddie is familiar and a bit annoying, but to his aunts, it looks comfortable and intimate. Daisy smiles, glad to know someone will be around to take care of Eddie once they’re gone. Eddie tries not to relax slightly into Richie’s embrace, but he never said he was a fucking _saint_ , okay? “Guys, Eds and I go way back, you see. He’s being modest about the nature of our relationship. We’re best friends. Butt buddies, even -- ”

“ _Okay_ , it was _so_ nice to see you guys, _really_ ,” Eddie cuts in, voice strained, trying to be heard over his aunts’ raucous laughter. “But if my mom finds out Richie’s in here…” The laughter dies out at this admission.

“Yeah, oh, of course, Eddie. We’ll be discreet about it,” Beatrice promises, looking over at Maya and communicating with her serious expression to hold back on whatever comment she was going to spit out about having to hide Richie from Sonia undermining the whole _pal_ thing. Maya’s shoulders slump and she pouts, but stays dutifully silent. “You don’t need to worry. Secret’s safe with us.”

Richie untangles himself from Eddie as Daisy moves in to hug him goodbye, holding on tightly, as if she’s afraid to let him go, knowing very well this might be the last time she sees him for a long, long time. Possibly forever. _God, I wish we had more time,_ she thinks miserably. Daisy moves back and sniffs, wiping a tear and giggles as Eddie does the same, not quite certain why he’s so emotional about being separated from three women he barely knows.

Beatrice is next and her hug is softer, more gentle. Eddie relaxes into her embrace, feeling less desperate than he did with Daisy, but still so incredibly sad nonetheless. Beatrice pets his hair, opening her mouth to say something, anything. She’s a psychiatrist for shit’s sake, she is trained to know the right thing to say in every situation, especially the hard ones. But she thinks there are no rules for this. There are no rules when family is involved. She pulls away, smiling gently at Eddie before allowing Maya to step in.

Maya smiles as Eddie clutches onto her back tightly, glad to know she’s not the only fierce one in this family, that maybe Shawn’s fighting spirit isn’t lost after all. She leans in so that only Eddie will hear what she’s about to say and what she whispers to him has Eddie blushing from head to toe.

“Hold onto that one.” Eddie sputters indignantly, moving to let go and explain himself further, but Maya keeps her hold on him fast and strong. “It’s okay. I know. Just hold onto him.” Eddie sighs and relaxes fully into her tight hug. He nods, head bobbing on her shoulder. She looks over at Richie who is watching them with soft eyes. _Shawn burned brightly, too,_ she thinks. _Some matches burn out too soon, I guess._ She pulls back and as they all go to leave the room, Maya stops in the doorway. She looks at Eddie and then Richie, standing next to each other. Richie had moved in closer to Eddie once Maya had stepped away, as if to hold him up once she was gone. Daisy smiles over Maya’s shoulder. _Family_ , she thinks a bit sadly. _They look more like a family than Sonia and Eddie do._ Maya tilts her head in consideration at them.

“You know, you remind me of someone,” Maya says vaguely, her eyes twinkling in the low light of the hallway as her eyes flit between them. Richie smiles in confusion, but Beatrice and Daisy both gasp behind her softly in recognition. _Oh_ , Beatrice thinks. _Shawn. Of course. He’s just like Shawn. They both are._ Maya smiles at Eddie and nods sagely with a wisdom far beyond her attitude or demeanor. She closes the door and leaves Eddie and Richie submerged in confusion and darkness.

Eddie turns to Richie and can barely make him out in the darkness, just his vague outline. He goes to reach out for him, touch his arm, his hand, just reach out and make contact, but stops himself even though they’re alone now and no one is around to pass judgement on the tenuous, selectively romantic thing they’ve created over the years. Eddie is, to put it simply, scared. He’s scared of the pain opening the doors of love would do to himself, to Richie and to their relationship. He’s scared that Richie is a _boy_ and what that means for him. He’s known the truth about himself since he was 12 years old, but admitting it to anyone, least of all himself, feels impossible. His aunts got too close to the truth just now. So he does what Eddie Kaspbrak does best: he cares about his _friend_.

“Richie… Why are you here?” Eddie whispers kindly. Even in his dimly-lit bedroom, Eddie can see a smile stretch across Richie’s face and can see plain as day how forced it is.

“Aw, Spaghetti Man. Can’t a guy miss his _best pal_?” he teases in what should be a light voice, but to Eddie sounds wafer-thin. It’s like if a gust of wind were to blow through his open window right then, it would carry Richie’s words off with it into the streets below them.

“Richie…” Eddie sighs, looking at him pointedly, the way he always looks at him when he wants Richie to cut the bullshit. The look says _Hey. It’s me. You don’t have to do this, be a jokester all the time. Not around me._ Richie recognizes that deep in Eddie’s eyes and his lower lip starts to wobble.

“I asked my dad to-to come see me. And he did. He actually fucking did, Eds. Can you believe it? Nine years away from us and all I ever had to do to get him to come back was _ask_ …” His voice is soft, but there’s a sharp edge to his tone that Eddie doesn’t recognize.

“Your _father_?” Richie laughs, sounding so forced and strained that Eddie has to stop himself from giving him a pitying smile. He doesn’t pity Richie, he never will. But the expression comes so naturally to him, cultivated and taught to him by his mother, that he has to suppress it whenever he feels it coming.

“Yes, sir.”

“But… I thought he was…”

“Gone? He was. But turns out he was only in Portland, Maine the entire fucking time and I made the mistake of needing to emote. Never doing _that_ again,” Richie spits with disgust. Eddie’s eyebrows pinch in. He notices that Richie’s knees begin to wobble, even in the darkness, and he guides Richie to the bed. They sit by the open window, the light from the orange streetlight below the only thing illuminating them, but because Richie is directly in front of the window, it lights him up completely. Eddie thinks it makes Richie look beautiful. Timeless. Cosmic.

“That’s not a problem, Richie. Emotions are not the enemy.” Richie snorts, body heaving with the force of it. Eddie feels it, noticing his hand is still on Richie’s back from where he brought Richie over to the bed. He doesn’t remove it, even though his palm burns where it touches the fabric of Richie’s familiar jean jacket, and Richie is so glad, desperately willing to burn in the heat of Eddie Kaspbrak.

“They sure are mine.” Eddie frowns.

“C’mon, Rich, what happened? What’s wrong?” Eddie asks, leaning forward to try to look Richie in the eyes. Richie eventually does look at Eddie and he gives him a watery smile, resolve crumbling.

“I told him I’m gay,” he whispers harshly. The hand that’s on Richie’s back clutches his jacket tightly, balling the material in his fist, and Eddie’s free hand flies to Richie’s clasped ones without really meaning to. Richie grabs on tightly though, and Eddie thinks his emotional mistake may not have been such a bad thing after all. “He looked so ashamed. He couldn’t even say anything.”

“Richie…” Eddie breathes, mere inches from Richie’s face, but Richie isn’t looking at him anymore, staring at their hands tightly clutching each other’s in his lap.

“I haven’t even told my mom or Jess yet. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Richie stifles a sob but Eddie can hear in his voice that he’s on the edge of breaking, just as he himself was less than an hour ago. Eddie thinks about what Richie would do in this situation if roles were reversed. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what he’s about to do.

He untangles his fingers from Richie’s and Richie makes a wounded noise before Eddie drags his other hand up Richie’s spine, up the length of his neck, and touches both his palms to Richie’s cheeks, trying to get him to look at him. Richie is still staring at his lap, at his still tightly interlocked hands.

“Richie, look at me,” he breathes into the holy space they’re created, pushing on his cheeks just a bit towards Eddie’s open, vulnerable face. His voice is barely audible, simply a breeze in the air around them, but Richie looks over at him anyway, allowing his head to be turned by Eddie. Their eyes meet, swimming in brown like bark and soft earth, and where Richie’s are watery, Eddie’s are steady, grounded and wholly interested. Richie’s never felt particularly interesting before Eddie looked at him like this. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Yeah?” Richie asks with a half-smile. He knows there’s not, but this is _Eddie_ saying that, the boy who has always been fear-mongered by his mother into believing that he can get AIDS from a subway pole and that sex, in any form, no matter who it’s with, is the dirtiest act imaginable. But he just nods slowly, never breaking eye contact with Richie, and smiles back.

“Yeah. Your dad was wrong to leave you and he was wrong today when he said he was ashamed of you.” Richie goes to correct him and say that his father never actually said he was ashamed, that he simply acted that way, but his words die in his throat as Eddie leans his forehead against Richie’s and closes his eyes, just as he had at his Halloween party less than a month ago. Richie looks at him, unbelievably close, eyes wide and desperately searching Eddie’s face before his glasses inevitably fog up. Eddie shakes his head twice in disbelief, a simple roll of his forehead against Richie’s. _He’s not drunk_ , Richie thinks wildly. _Someone likes me when they’re sober._ Richie immediately clings to the collar of Eddie’s t-shirt tightly, needing an anchor, something that won’t blow him away in the storm. Eddie is the strongest pillar he knows.

“I don’t know why anyone would ever leave you…” Eddie whispers.

Richie feels tears pool in his eyes immediately and he chokes on all the words he can’t say. _I love you. Thank you. That was all I ever wanted to hear. Please love me, too. I can’t believe you’re my friend._ He eventually settles on what he thinks is a truth of the universe.

“I don’t deserve you.” It’s said like a prayer, like an admission of faith that he knows to be true and trusts that Eddie will not leave him because of it. A tear falls from Richie’s eyelashes and onto Eddie’s hand. Eddie knows how dangerously he is teetering on the precipice of love, wants desperately to pull away and run far and run fast from this place. But he knows he would only want to run if Richie were holding his hand, so he stays resolutely planted on the bed. He opens his eyes to see Richie’s, so entirely serious, more serious than he thinks he’s ever seen Richie Tozier be, and Eddie smiles at him, wishing his own grin could pull out Richie’s. Eddie thinks Richie’s smile is the most beautiful sight there ever was. And then, by some miracle, Richie does smile. So Eddie falls, as he always knew he would. He hopes Richie is there to catch him at the bottom.

“Well, you’ve got me forever anyway, Richie Tozier.”

After Eddie’s insistence that Richie spend the night, Eddie falls asleep soon after, but Richie barely sleeps at all, not willing to miss a second of this moment. He is a breath away from Eddie Kaspbrak who looks utterly peaceful in his sleep, his dreams taking away the stress of the day, and even though he and Eddie aren’t touching, Richie still feels like this is the most intimate moment he’s ever shared with anyone in his life.

He remembers his first kiss with Bill: a clumsy, nervous moment, not of self-expression, but of worry that they wouldn’t be good enough for whoever comes next. They trusted one another enough to mess up with each other. Their teeth clacked together and their lips mashed uncomfortably and Richie couldn’t figure out where to position his face so his glasses didn’t press into Bill’s face, but it was still sweet. It was still kind, because it was Bill Denbrough. Bill trusts Richie enough to get angry at him when he says something that hurts him, and Richie trusts Bill enough to forgive him when he makes mistakes. Their relationship is something that Richie wouldn’t give up for the world.

His relationship with Eddie is much, much different.

Richie trusts Eddie, of course, he trusts all of the Losers. But with Eddie, he doesn’t trust himself. He doesn’t know how to keep himself from saying something stupid, something horrible, something truthful, something that will push Eddie away. He’s afraid of the magnitude of his feelings for Eddie, the swelling, bursting reality of them.

But he’s alright with this. He tells himself that he has to be as he watches Eddie sleep peacefully, hands tucked underneath his chin. Eddie had set his watch for 4:30 A.M. so that Richie can go out the window before his mother wakes up, but Richie doesn’t think he’ll need it.

He knows he isn’t going to get much sleep tonight - not with the way Eddie looks, so serene, untouched by pain, drenched in moonlight, like he’s becoming part of the silver light coming through the window itself.

 

* * *

 

Bill Denbrough would do anything for his friends. He hopes that much is obvious by now, after years of protecting them from emotional and sometimes physical harm, being a trusted confidant and loving them all with every inch of himself.

So when Richie came to him a few days before Thanksgiving Break and suggested that the Losers do their own Thanksgiving, Bill had simply shrugged and asked where Richie thought it was best to host it. Richie said Beverly’s house, and told him he _had_ to invite Georgie, and Bill smiled wide and said okay. He loves his friends and would do anything for them.

Including watch them tear Beverly’s house apart and then dirty it all up the day after a major holiday just to please them. It was to Beverly’s insistence, as her and her aunt don’t speak to the rest of their family (Bill still to this day hasn’t gotten a straight answer about what happened to Beverly’s mother), and they both agreed that when the Losers wanted to have a Thanksgiving with just their friends, it should be at Beverly’s apartment - the biggest reason being that they were the only ones willing to host it.

Currently, Georgie is riding around on Richie’s back as he tears through the living room and into the kitchen. They stop short where Bill is attempting to season the chicken and Richie is frowning at it.

“Are you putting flour on the chicken?”

“Seasoned flour, Rich,” Bill answers. He continues frowning.

“Seasoning is bad,” he says with an air of finality, like there’s no changing his mind on the subject. Bill gasps, affronted.

“D-D-Don’t put ideas in Georgie’s head that seasoning i-isn’t good!” he chides. Richie rolls his eyes, adjusting Georgie on his back. Eddie and Mike are slicing the yams at the kitchen table and Mike looks over quickly and then back at the food in front of them.

“Rich, soul food is really tasty. I think you’ll like it,” he says.

“Oh, I’m sure, Mikey! I just like bland stuff -- ”

“A-ha!” Eddie calls out, dropping the container of cinnamon and spilling it into the mixture he was carefully measuring of sugar, nutmeg and vanilla so he can whip around to point at Richie furiously. “You _admit it!_ Your taste _is_ bland!”

“I said nothing of the sort,” Richie sniffs. He then looks at the mess Eddie has made of the mix to spread on the yams and smirks with a chuckle. “But I don’t think anyone’s got taste buds strong enough to handle _that_ mess.”

“What? It’s coming out f--…” He stops when he sees the mountain of cinnamon in the mixture. He looks up at Mike. “Uh oh.”

“Jesus…” Mike laughs, shaking his head. “Just start over.”

“We don’t have anymore cinnamon!” Eddie exclaims, voice rising in pitch.

“It’s okay, Eds, just add more of the r-r-rest of the ingredients. See if that d-does anything,” Bill suggests from where he’s attempting to wrestle the bag of flour out of Richie’s grasp. “Rich! Gimme!”

“No! She’s my child!” Richie argues petulantly, and Georgie laughs from behind them where he’s slipped off Richie’s back in the scuffle.

“Rich, c’mon, if you b-b-br-b -- if the bag explodes, we’re all in big tr-trouble!” Bill yells, trying to keep from laughing. “Don’t make me beep you!”

“Beep, Richie!” Georgie giggles. “Beep!”

“No, Georgie!” Richie laughs, doubling over from the force of it. “Don’t give him any ideas!”

“Fine!” Bill sighs, exasperated, allowing Richie to take the bag of flour. “You’ve cl-cl-clearly gone nuts - there’s no saving you.”

“Don’t speak to me that way in front of my daughter!” Richie gasps, hiding the bag of flour from Bill’s view.

“God, can you e-e-ever follow the rules?” Bill throws up his hands, and Richie’s eyes light up. He leans over and kisses Bill’s cheek messily, smearing flour on both their faces. Bill laughs, pushing him away lightly. “What?!”

“I’m just following the rules, like you said!” Richie insists, pointing to Bill’s apron that reads _Kiss the cook!_ “Do you not want me to follow the rules? I’m fine with that, but you’ve gotta pick a side, folks!”

“Jesus…” Bill mutters. “You’re done. I l-love you, Rich, but you’re exiled from my k-k-kitchen.”

“It’s not even your kitchen!” Richie whines, clutching the flour to his chest. “It’s Bev’s!”

“Bev says listen to the cook,” Beverly says from where she’s chopping up pecans and the apples they picked two weeks ago for the pie.

 _“Fine!”_ Richie shrieks. “Me and my flour child will take our business elsewhere!”

“Your _flour child_?” Eddie stresses, staring at him with wide, shocked eyes, like he honestly cannot believe a person like Richie Tozier even exists at all.

“ _Our_ flour child, Eds. She’ll be the _flour_ girl at our wedding!” Richie winks. Eddie’s face burns as he frowns intensely.

“We are _not_ getting married -- ”

“ -- Not yet,” Richie winks.

“And that was a terrible joke.”

“Aw, I thought it was kinda funny, actually…” Mike muses. Richie’s face lights up and he runs around the counter to high five him. Flour gets everywhere when their hands slap together, clouding in the air, and Eddie coughs violently.

“You’re going to fucking kill me!” Eddie yells.

“Oh, sorry, Eds… Do you need your inhaler?” Richie asks, already putting down the bag of flour and fishing around in his pocket for the spare one he keeps on him for Eddie. He grabs it and hands it to Eddie without a second thought and Eddie takes a grateful hit while Mike gets him a glass of water. _Probably more helpful than the placebo meds…_ Richie thinks sourly, wishing he’d thought of it first. Eddie gulps down the glass and nods when he’s finished, embarrassed that he still feels he has to carry around an inhaler in the first place despite what he and Richie both heard at Thanksgiving from his Aunt Beatrice. He glares half-heartedly at Richie when he’s finished.

“Thanks,” he says, handing back the aspirator. Richie smiles down at him. Only Eddie can say _thank you_ while glaring at someone.

“Notta problem, Spaghetti,” Richie says, ruffling Eddie’s hair and coating it in flour. Eddie grimaces but makes no move to push him away. “Alright, me and my flour girl are going to take this party to the living room. Maybe we can help Ben fold napkins…”

“Absolutely not!” Ben calls out from within the living room.

“We’ll see about that,” Richie laughs easily and walks into the living room.

Turns out Ben was right and Richie cannot make his fingers work delicately at all. He ends up taking Bubba, Beverly’s corgi, for a walk, and he finds someone’s dead lilies still sitting in a potted plant. He looks around quickly before he nabs them from the slightly frosted dirt and walks back to the apartment complex, satisfied. Bubba is excited by the flowers and keeps jumping up onto Richie’s knees to try to smell (eat?) them. Richie laughs.

“Silly Bubba! Flowers are for bees!” he says in the Voice from the Trix commercials. He thinks he did a pretty bang-up job with the joke and laughs at it even though no one else is around to laugh with him. Usually, he has a specific Voice for when he speaks to dogs, a higher-pitched and overly-fond one that he reserves exclusively for dogs and babies. He wipes the dirt as best he can off the roots before going walking when they get back to Beverly’s building and when he knocks on the door and is let back in, Bubba is very excited to show everybody what Richie brought back.

“Guys! Bubba brought you back a present!”

Ben looks up from the napkins and smiles confusedly at the flowers. He gets up to examine them.

“Those are pretty dead, Rich.”

“Aw, Ben, don’t you like my present?” Richie asks in a confusingly deep and pitchy Voice that Ben can only assume is supposed to be Bubba’s. He feels guilty despite the fact that Bubba is looking at him with what can only be described as a smile as he pants on the floor below them, looking at him excitedly and wagging his tail.

“Sorry, Bub,” Ben says, and it sounds so genuine that Richie bursts out laughing. “Fuck you, Trashmouth! You’re the one who anthropomorphized Beverly’s dog and made me feel guilty over saying a _fact_!”

“Rich!” Eddie cries from within the kitchen. “Is that you? Quick! We need your waffle expertise!”

“My man needs me, Bubba - can you stay with Uncle Ben and help him fold napkins?” Richie asks, unclipping Bubba’s leash and letting him trot through the living room aimlessly, glad to be free of the leash.

“I’m sure Bubs would be better at folding napkins than you, Trashmouth, and he doesn’t even have opposable thumbs,” Ben smiles teasingly.

“Ha ha,” Richie says dryly, glaring playfully. “I’m comin’, Eds!” He runs into the kitchen, making sure to close the door behind him so that Bubba doesn’t get in. He approaches Eddie with the flowers held out in front of him with a toothy smile. “For you, Eddie my love.”

Eddie looks up at his eyes first and then they drop down to the flowers in his outstretched hands. “Why did you bring dead lilies into Beverly’s home?”

“They’re a symbol of my undying love for you, Eds! Don’t you like ‘em?” Eddie’s cheeks flush a deep crimson and he looks away.

“Don’t call me that,” he mutters.

“Aw, that’s all you got? C’mon, get some original material, Eddie!” he laughs, slinging his arm around Eddie’s shoulder and shaking it playfully. “Help me put these in some water and then show me to the waffle conundrum.”

“I don’t think even water will save these, Rich, they’re frozen…” Eddie muses, taking them from Richie and prodding at them. Richie leans in closer and observes them. Eddie can smell the cool, November air on his skin and he wants to _run._ He also wants to lean in closer and demand that Richie never let him go. He ends up staying right where he is.

“What do lilies mean? Do you know?” Richie asks quietly. Eddie looks up at him.

“Yeah, I do,” he says. _The innocence of death,_ he thinks. _Devotion._ “But I’m not gonna tell you.”

 _“Eddie!”_ Richie whines, but Eddie is already untangling himself from Richie’s grasp and filling a cup with tap water and sticking the lilies inside.

“C’mon, Rich, help me figure out this waffle situation,” he says from the frying pan. Richie sighs and crowds behind Eddie, trying to see what the issue is. It becomes obvious quickly.

“Why are you trying to make waffles in a frying pan?” he asks with a stifled laugh.

“Because we have no other options! We don’t have a waffle maker!” Eddie cries, flapping his arms.

“Hm. Mike, is chicken and pancakes a viable option?” Mike stops coating the potatoes in the mixture Eddie made and thinks for a moment.

“I mean… sure? This meal is already a damn mess - why not add the confusing taste of pancakes into the mix?” Mike smiles, shrugging. Bill frowns.

“Is it not authentic? We’re tr-trying to make it the way you had it at S-S-Sunday night dinners as a kid, Mikey. That was the point,” Bill sighs. He takes off his chef’s hat. “I don’t d-d-deserve to wear this...”

“The _drama_ , Billy,” Mike laughs, walking over to him and curling his arm around Bill’s shoulders. “Put that hat back on - you’re the only one out of us who can make their way through a kitchen. We’d be lost without you.” Mike wishes the sentiment weren’t as true as it is, but he knows every person in this kitchen feels the truth of that statement deep in their bones.

“Yeah! You’re our only hope, Billy Boy!” Richie crows, grabbing the hat from his hands and putting it back on Bill’s head. Bill smiles miserably.

“You think it’s st-st-still okay even though we’re all making m-mistakes?” Bill asks hopefully, looking up at Mike with big eyes. Mike laughs, nodding, he kisses Bill on the forehead.

“Absolutely, Bill. It’s perfect, even if it’s absolutely inedible. What do you think, Stanley?”

“I think it’s probably gonna be just as good as your mama made it, Mikey. She wasn’t the greatest cook, if I remember correctly.” Stanley and Mike share a smile. Only Stanley was friends with Mike before the fire, and he and his parents were invited to Sunday Night dinners at the Hanlon Farm every week due to his father being the rabbi. Stanley remembers very little but the intensely good cornbread, the lovely woman on one end of the table who always slipped him an extra piece before dinner was over, and the beautiful man at the head of the table who looked at his son who always sat to his right like he held the whole universe within him. Stanley turns to Bill. “I’m sure Mrs. Hanlon would’ve approved highly.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Mike smiles. “Because we made it together.”

 _“Aww,”_ Richie coos dramatically, swooning in front of them. “That’s so sweet. Truly. But I’m pretty sure the mac and cheese is burning in the oven and I promised you all that I would _not_ be eating burned mac and cheese.” Bill rushes to the oven while Richie continues prattling on. “Beverly and I were right when we said that mac and cheese is better form the box. Homemade is for _suckers._ ”

“I literally never once said that - don’t involve me in your web of lies, Tozier,” Beverly says as she helps Bill take out the pan. “Rich, turn on the overhead fan!”

“Wow, that even _smells_ burned…” Richie grimaces as he does what he’s told. Bill sighs as he sets down the food. He looks up at Mike with a deep frown.

“Bill, do you wanna just go to the diner?”

Bill gasps, affronted, but doesn’t answer right away, thinking it over. “Is a-a-any part of this meal salvageable?”

“The napkins turned out nice! I folded them into boats with Ben, the way you taught me, Billy!” Georgie smiles.

“And my _flower child_ is sitting nice and healthy in her water home,” Richie insists, pointing dramatically to where the flowers are wilting over the cup’s edge. Bill sighs at the sight.

“Fine. We’ll go to the diner.”

“Yay!” Georgie cheers. “I want a cheeseburger the size of my _head_!”

“It’s too cold to bike…” Eddie warns, frowning.

“How do you suppose we get home, Eds?” Richie laughs. “Do we all live in Beverly’s apartment now, packed in like sardines?”

“That’d be fine with me!” Beverly's aunt Shirley calls from where she’s watching _Days of Our Lives_ in the living room.

“Not me!” Beverly insists, shaking her head wildly. “I like my alone time!”

“Yeah, I _bet_ you do,” Richie leers.

 _“Beep beep, Trashmouth,”_ Beverly stresses, eyes darting to Georgie who is discussing the merits of lettuce and tomato on burgers with Stanley.

“Dammit!” he hisses quietly. “Why am I always forgetting to be normal around the kid?”

“It’s okay, Rich…” Beverly soothes, wrapping her arm around him with a smile. “It’s not in your nature to be normal.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he laughs softly. He turns to where Eddie is watching them both with a fond smile that is immediately wiped away when Richie looks at him. “Eds, it isn’t even dark out. I was just outside walking Hubba Bubba, and it was really nice out! Barely even a breeze, honest.”

Eddie sighs and rolls his eyes. “Fine. But we’re riding double! You barely worked all day and I’m tired.”

“Fine with me, sweet cheeks,” Richie says, pinching Eddie’s cheek. Eddie bats him away. They go towards the door and then Richie turns to where the other half of their group is still in a heated discussion about burger toppings.

“Are you guys coming?” They all nod hurriedly and Richie grabs the flowers out of the cup on the way out and sticks them behind Eddie’s ear with a kiss to his fingers. “Perfecto! Fantisimo! A beautiful belle!”

“Leave me alone, I’m allergic to dead flowers,” Eddie grimaces, but he doesn’t remove them from behind his ear regardless of hay fever. “Where did you even get these?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Richie says, sticking his nose up in the air is he mounts his bike. “C’mon, Eds, let’s ride.”

 

“I still can’t believe you took the fl-fl-flour, Rich - we couldn’t make the crust for Ben’s pies!” Bill laughs as they enter Sue’s. It’s a cold day, wickedly cold, and their skin is wind-bitten and flushed as they stuff their jackets and scarves into the corner of the booth.

“Yeah! And my mom’s pies were delicious! You’re all missing out.” Ben says. Everyone looks at him to make sure he’s truly alright, but he’s smiling in that unaffected way he has, the one where he thinks everything might be okay as long as these six people never leave his side. They all smile back and take their seats.

“I think we should’ve had faith in our Billy!” Beverly smiles sweetly. Bill’s eyes sparkle. Richie mimes vomiting at the sight.

“Yuck. So fucking straight of you guys,” he grimaces. Bill blushes and Beverly shrugs. “Yeah, well, I can’t believe you made me leave the flour at the house! My poor flour child! She’s probably cold!” Richie whines insistently. They all laugh at his misfortune.

“What are we even gonna do with all the apples and pumpkins we got from the farm a few weeks ago?” Mike chuckles. “Are they just gonna go to waste? They would’ve already been rotten by now if we’d gotten them from the Bowers’ Farm...” He narrows his eyes angrily at the thought of the Bowers and how terrible they are to him and his grandfather, but Richie’s voice cuts through his dark thoughts.

“Never!” he cries, sticking a finger up in the air. “I’ll eat every apple - I love appies. We’ll do punkie carving when we get home, too.”

“What about me?” Georgie pouts, looking up from where he was asking Bill to read things for him off the menu. “I don’t have a pumpkin!”

“Georgie, my man, you get the most important job of all,” Richie says seriously. Georgie’s eyes widen in excitement. “The judge. Yes, Georgie Denbrough will be the pumpkin arbiter! He will keep us honest and loyal to the craft.”

“I’ll do my best,” Georgie says, voice just as serious as Richie’s was. Richie salutes and goes back to reading his menu.

“Hmm. Eds, designate a side for this coin - one will be chicken fingers and one will be chili fries.”

“God, you get this meal _every time,”_ Eddie groans. “Fine. Heads is chicken, tails are fries.”

Richie flips the coin and then catches it before it hits the table. “You know what, I think I’ll get both.”

“Oh, so all that for nothing?” Eddie says, but he’s got the ghost of a smile on his face.

“I’m a growing boy, Eddie, we’ve discussed this!” he insists.

“Hi, guys!” They hear from the foot of the table. They look up to see Maggie Tozier with a friendly smile on her face. “Hi, Rich!”

“Hey, Ma!” Richie grins excitedly, glad to see his mother in good spirits after the day they both had yesterday. He still hasn’t told the group about it yet. They asked why he and Eddie rode double to Beverly’s, but Richie just said he picked Eddie up on the way. He kind of wanted to keep their night together as a gift for himself. Eddie had just aimed a quirked smile at him and said nothing. Richie can only hope Eddie wanted to keep it between them as well.

He observes his mother’s nature and finds that she is in fact sober. It isn’t often that he’s seen her drunk at work - so rarely, he can only count on one hand - and for the amount of times he shows up to Sue’s unannounced without him telling her he’d stop by during her shift, he thinks that’s a pretty great track record, especially for an addict who isn’t fond of their job. There are moments when he feels a swell of pride for his mother, and this is most definitely one of them.

“It’s good to see you guys. Happy Thanksgiving,” she greets with a broad smile. Usually when Richie and his mother smile, neither of them show teeth - they’re embarrassed of the crookedness of their smiles, the large nature of their front teeth. Richie has a space between his that he isn’t so fond of. But she shows her teeth anyway, almost as if she’s comfortable around these people like Richie is, and it gives him the strength to smile with his as well.

“Yeah, you, too, Mrs. Tozier!” Eddie waves.

“Aw, Eddie, I’ve told you, call me Maggie,” she admonishes with a light, breezy tone, and Eddie thinks this might be the first time he’s ever felt comfortable around Maggie Tozier.

“Sure. Sorry, Maggie.” They share a smile and Richie’s heart sings where he’s seated beside Eddie.

“Not a problem. Are you guys ready to order? Everything in place?” They all order with contentment - even Bill manages to not stutter once as he orders, something they’ve never heard before. Maggie nods and waves slightly as she walks away.

“Wow, Rich,” Eddie whispers excitedly, repeatedly bumping into Richies side. Richie smiles broadly down at his hands intertwined in his lap. “Where did that come from?”

“She probably feels bad for me,” he says quietly, trying to shrug off what was honestly a very exciting moment for him.

“Aw, Rich, c’mon. That’s not true. Maybe you and her are on a good foot now!” Eddie smiles.

“Yeah. Or maybe it’s the calm before the storm when I eventually come home.” Richie’s smile fades and Eddie frowns. He takes a chance and grabs Richie’s clasped hands, squeezing them a bit. He lets go before Richie can intertwine their fingers, but it still makes his heart flutter regardless. He misses the contact of their skin like a phantom ache as soon as it’s gone - a limb that should be attached but is not. But Richie looks up at him and smiles, and when he looks up at Eddie, he’s smiling at him in a way he can’t place. Pity? Encouragement? Affection? Whatever it is, it has Richie’s heart sinking to the floor of his stomach and planting its roots there, full of love and anticipation.

“Hey, Rich,” Beverly says. Richie looks up at her, and she’s smiling, too, and Richie wonders what he ever did to deserve any of them. “Why did you suggest substituting apple juice for water in the pie?”

Richie’s smile cracks over his face, splinters, and finally splits his face in half. “It makes sense, does it _not?!”_

“Do you have a chef’s hat in your po-po-possession, Richie?” Bill asks, raising an eyebrow playfully. Richie wilts.

“No…” he huffs petulantly.

“Didn’t think so.” But Bill knocks their shoulders together where he’s on Richie’s other side, and Richie knows that no matter what happens when he does go home, no matter if he ever sees his father again, he will always have a family in these six people.

 

* * *

 

It’s November 24, 1991, and for the Losers’ Club and many people around the world, this day will live in infamy as one of tragedy. As it is, Richie Tozier is laying on his bed as the radio plays. It’s playing _Rocket Man_ by Elton John and Richie is slowly kicking his feet in the air to the beat, as if he’s dancing on the ceiling.

 _And I think it's gonna be a long, long time_  
_'Till touchdown brings me ‘round again to find_  
_I'm not the man they think I am at home  
Oh, no, no, no, I'm a rocket man_

This song always makes Richie think. He certainly doesn’t know Elton John personally, but he does know what it’s like to feel like the only person in the entire world sometimes - to feel ostracized, to feel utterly and completely alone. He knows Elton John came out as gay a few years ago, and he thinks that maybe Elton John knew a thing or two about metaphor when he was writing this song. He hopes every gay person figures out a place in the world someday soon. He selfishly hopes he does sooner than that.

A commercial comes on after that, and it’s a news announcement. Usually, Richie tunes these kinds of things out, but the man sounds grave over the radio. So, so serious. Richie finds himself sitting up to listen.

 _“Hello, folks. I’ve just been alerted that Freddie Mercury, the face behind the beloved rock band Queen, has passed away today in his home in Kensington, London. His agent says that he succumbed to AIDS related illnesses. He was 45 years old. His final words were ‘thank you,’ and I feel that’s very appropriate. Thank_ you _, Freddie - you gave us all beautiful music that we will treasure forever. In honor of Freddie Mercury, I’d like to play you a song of his, the final song he ever performed live:_ We Are the Champions. _Be well, everyone.”_

Richie can’t move. He can’t breathe. He’s staring straight ahead of him and has broken out in a cold sweat. He isn’t sure he took in much after ‘passed away.’ Well, that’s not entirely true. He knows Freddie died of AIDS related illnesses. Probably pneumonia, from all he knows of AIDS, which he thinks is probably too much for the young age of 15. He knows he could die the same way - so could Stanley. He knows he absolutely cannot be alone right now.

He leaves the radio on and runs out of his room.

 _We are the champions, my friends_  
_And we’ll keep on fighting ‘till the end_  
_We are the champions_  
_We are the champions_  
_No time for losers, ‘cause we are the champions  
Of the world..._

It’s snowing. Richie doesn’t even register it. He doesn’t leave a note for his mother - he knows she won’t care where he’s gone anyway and neither will Jess. His family, none of them care about him. That was made clear when he came home the day after Thanksgiving and they didn’t even look at him. The sweetness at the diner had been false, just as Richie had assumed it’d been. He has to be with his _real_ family. He has to see Beverly. So he takes off on his bike and rides through the snow. He falls at one point and scrapes up his arm. He doesn’t feel it even though he isn’t wearing a jacket to protect his skin from the cold or the pavement. He knows it’s bleeding and he begins breathing heavily. He stares at it intensely until he takes off full speed on his bike, only two blocks away from Beverly’s apartment now. He runs inside after ditching his bicycle next to Beverly’s on the bike rack and knocks on the door. It’s dark out, and he doesn’t know what time it is, but he doesn’t care. He needs to clean his wound. He needs to see Beverly. He needs to know that everything will be okay.

Beverly opens the door in her pajamas, takes in Richie’s tear-stained face, he takes in hers, and they immediately pull each other into their arms. They stand there, in the threshold of something new and something horrible, shaking and crying, trying to put themselves back together slowly and carefully with the help of one other.

“Do you want…” Beverly hiccups, her body rocking with it. “Do you want the others, too?”

Richie nods fiercely, and they call Bill, because Bill Denbrough has all the answers. He has to. They tell him what’s happened, and he says he’ll call everyone else and have them come over to Beverly’s. _See,_ Richie says, _Bill can fix this. Bill will know how to fix this._ Beverly just nods, doesn’t want to say that she knows better than anyone that there is no fixing death.

Stanley shows up first - they see his mother was able to drive him as she waves to them out the window. Then it’s Bill, then Mike, then Ben and Eddie show up together, and the Losers’ Club are all together. Nobody speaks until Eddie and Ben show up, and even then, it’s quiet until Richie begins crying.

They all crowd around him, but he shakes his head. “No,” he whispers. “I have to clean this.” He points to his arm. “I’m…”

“Richie, you’re fine…” Beverly says carefully. “Let’s clean it up, but you’re… you’re fine.”

“Maybe… But maybe not.” Nobody knows what to say. There’s no fixing their heartache. There’s no fixing this.

Beverly decides she can’t just sit around and wait to start crying - no, Beverly Marsh detests crying about death; she feels like she’s done enough of it to last a lifetime. So while Eddie helps clean Richie’s wound in the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchen, Beverly makes boxed macaroni and cheese, four boxes worth, enough to feed their whole group. She remembers only three days ago when they’d danced around this exact room and made this exact meal - the mood was so much lighter, their hearts felt less like they were ripping apart at the seams, and Richie was able to joke. They didn’t realize how much they’d miss Trashmouth Tozier until he was gone from view.

Once Beverly is finished dishing out seven bowls of noodles and sets them all out on the coffee table in a circle, they all sit around in a circle and begin eating - all but one. Richie simply sits, staring at the meal in front of him, unable to eat. Eddie, who is sitting next to him, is insistent that he does.

“C’mon, Rich, have you even eaten all day?” Richie shrugs noncommittally, but Eddie knows to take that as a no. “You’ve gotta.”

“Don’t want to.”

“You have to,” Eddie insists softly, voice so, so tender. “We have to keep living. He would want us all to survive this.”

“You don’t get it, Eddie!” Richie yells, banging his fist on the table, and everyone startles, especially Eddie and Beverly. “You’re not gay! You don’t have the fear of this written into your fucking code!” A dark, heavy silence fills the room until Eddie speaks 30 seconds later, voice reedy and very intense.

“You think I don’t know about fear?” There is another silence while Eddie figures out if he should continue speaking or not. He knows he should come out to them all. He knows this is the perfect opportunity. But he doesn’t want to be thrown out of the closet by grief or heartbreak. He wants his coming out to be _his_ , in whatever form that takes, even if takes him his whole fucking life. But he knows after Freddie’s death, this is an important moment in history. He feels like this would be a momentous and valuable time to do it. He wants to. _God_ , does he want to. But he _can’t._ He tries to get the words out, knows it would be important for them to know - especially right now - but his voice is trapped inside him, just like everything else.

And Eddie isn’t angry - not at Richie at least. Because of course Richie would lash out. He’s _angry._ He feels like this just keeps happening - first, they came for Freddie, and now they’ll come for him. This disease is eating them alive for just trying to be who they are, trying to _love._ Eddie doesn’t continue, finds there’s nothing to say, so Stanley tries to comfort the room, even if he is only comforting himself as he speaks.

“God has a plan. That’s… That’s what they say at Temple: God has a plan. He wouldn’t have let this happen without a reason,” Stanley says, but he doesn’t sound certain the way he always does. Even so, Bill and Ben both take his shaking hands.

Richie snorts derisively, angrily, and then he absolutely explodes. “ _God?_ God _made_ this disease, Stanley. They were right all along, I guess: God hates fags.”

 _“Hey._ God didn’t make this,” Stanley says, voice all ice and steel. “I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t my God, okay? If you want to blame God, do it on your own time. I’m fucking out of here.” He scrambles up angrily, shaking off Bill and Ben, and grabs his jacket off the coat rack.

“Stan, no,” Bill says quietly before Stanley can even shrug on his coat. They all stop moving and look at him. Bill has been entirely quiet the entire time they’ve been in Beverly’s apartment, hasn’t said one word to anybody. “Please stay. I want us all to be together, even if we’re f-f-fighting. Please, please stay. We need to deal with this t-together.”

Stanley stares at him for a few long, drawn out moments and then nods before taking his place beside him once more.

“Death divides,” Mike says, just as quietly as Bill had been. They all listen carefully. “I know a thing or two about gone-too-soon, and that’s what I know of the aftermath: it divides. We can’t let it.”

“This disease, the people against gay people, they want you divided,” Beverly says, voice insistent, “to stop loving. It’d be easier that way, maybe, but love has to win this war. It has to…”

“Science will win this war, if anything does,” Richie scoffs. “Medical science has to find a cure, or we all will just keep fucking dying. But no one cares. No one in medical science is even motherfucking trying, Bev.”

“They are,” Ben stresses with a small smile. Richie turns to him, and he looks defeated and so, so tired. Ben can’t imagine what he must be going through right now, can’t imagine the pain. He loves Richie Tozier so fiercely, and he wants to help him see that Freddie Mercury didn’t die in vain - that there is an end in sight. “More and more scientists every day are trying to find a way out of this - a reason why this is happening. A cure. They’re making advancements, Rich, I’ve read about it. I can… I can give you this article I have about it.”

Richie stares at him for a long time, expression unreadable, and then nods slightly. “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

“It’s back at my house. On my desk, actually. Do you… Do you wanna come over soon?” Ben asks this warily, nervously. He hasn’t asked any of the Losers back to his aunt’s house - not inside, only in the treehouse - fearing that they won’t want to see him, that this is still all a big joke to them. But Richie gives him a small, very genuine smile and nods.

“Yeah, Haystack. That’d be cool.” Bill smiles at them and is so glad his group is complete. He remembers the days when it was just Richie, Stanley, Eddie and him, and those days were nice, of course - but there was always something missing. Eddie and Stanley were too harsh and rough and needed Beverly and Mike to smooth them out - Richie was too brash, too loud, and needed the sweetness of Ben to soften him. He’s watched those dynamics play out every day since Ben stumbled onto the sandlot in bright, blossoming technicolor. He thinks there’s no better person to complete their group than Ben Hanscom.

“Hey, guys,” Bill smiles. “You think we should pick for S-S-Secret Santa?”

“You do Secret Santa?” Ben asks with a sweet, shocked smile on his face. “You guys are like a real family.”

“Yessir, Hanscom,” Mike says, throwing his arm around his shoulders and squeezing them. “And you’re part of it now.”

Everyone smiles widely, but the biggest of all is Richie. He is the biggest proponent out of them all about the concept of choosing one’s family, and he is certain that they’ve all chosen the best one possible. He knows that if he were to be with his blood family right now, they would certainly not understand, not only because the two-thirds of them he’ll actually have contact with again after this don’t know he’s gay, but because they’re callous and cold and don’t care about how he feels - Richie’s sure of it. But these people, all six of them, they really, truly care about him, and Richie would gladly take six perfect friends over three shitty family members any day, any time. They would all rather be right where they are, identical pillars for each other, lifting one another up until they’re able to stand once more, than be with the people who don’t understand them.

Stanley’s father and his staunch anger, Bill’s father and his obvious favoritism, Eddie’s mother and her ability to hold on so tightly, it strains his air supply, Ben, a ghost in his new family and how much he feels like he does not belong, and Mike in a home that he doesn’t feel he belongs in if his mother and father aren’t there with him. They’re all missing something, even Beverly, missing what she craved for as a child - a semblance of normalcy. Richie hopes to God that they all fill up the empty parts in each other, that loving and cherishing one another with every piece of themselves makes up for all they lack when they have to go home at night, the homes that they don’t feel like themselves in.

Richie prays they all find real homes someday.


	3. Winter, 1991

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's the season of giving, so something's gotta give.

It’s the first snow of the year, and Ben immediately calls everyone and invites them over to his aunt’s house. When they get there, having needed to walk due to the snow, they’re all frigid and shaking. They’re looking forward to getting inside and watching movies with Ben.

They’re all waiting on the porch when Eddie, the last straggler, shows up.

“You’re late! And you look like a packing peanut!” Beverly laughs, all of them joining in. Eddie is wearing so many thick, insulated jackets, he looks like, if he fell over, he wouldn’t even feel it and just roll away.

“My mother made me wear all this shit,” Eddie grimaces, looking down at his white coat. “Now someone help me up the stairs, they look icy.”

“I’ve got you, peanut,” Richie says sweetly, offering him his hand. Eddie looks down at his feet, glad he had the excuse of looking at the ice to make sure he doesn’t fall; he doesn’t need Richie to see his pink cheeks and mock him relentlessly for it. Eddie’s a bit sweet on Richie’s nicknames, admitting this to only himself. But he knows they mean nothing to the other boy - they’re just jokes to Richie. But Eddie’s twisting stomach every time he calls him _Spaghetti darling_ cannot be joked about anymore in Eddie’s head, there’s too many instances of butterflies. So he ignores the feeling entirely and pushes him away at every chance he gets. There’s a part of him that’s glad this only spurs Richie on further. He makes it up the stairs and Richie pinches his cheek. “Proud of you, my ‘shmellow.”

His cloying voice and gentle hands are batted away by Eddie. “Get away from me, I’m allergic to dogs.” Richie laughs brightly as they all turn to the door. When Beverly rings the doorbell and Ben’s aunt answers, she just smiles and shakes her head.

“He’s out back, guys.”

“Out _back?”_ Richie cries. “You mean he’s somewhere in the back of the house where there’s warmth and heat and possibly some cocoa, _right?”_ He shoots her a winning smile and she laughs. They all let out a breath of relief. None of them have been inside Ben’s house yet, only Beverly and Mike on the front porch. They haven’t even caught a glimpse of his aunt in the five months they’ve been friends, so they’re glad to know that she’s accepting of Richie’s wild spirit and trashmouth antics.

“No, I mean out back as in the backyard,” she smiles. “You can go around the house, the gate is unlocked... I don’t want you to track mud into the house.”

“Understandable, ma’am,” Mike says politely. They all trudge down the stairs and into the backyard to see Ben beginning to make what looks like a wall.

“Hey, Haystack, wha’cha buildin’?” Richie calls out. Ben looks up and grins widely, waving them over. They all come to where Ben’s beginning his masterpiece and he begins talking in a way that’s almost too fast for any of them to hear. Luckily, they’ve known Eddie Kaspbrak for years and are all skilled at the art of deciphering a rushed sentence.

“Okay, so, my Uncle Steve was an architect, and I was always really interested in his drawings. Aunt Jo still has lots of them in his old office inside. He taught me how to build an igloo when I was around ten and I build one every year and I was wondering if you guys wanted to help.” Ben’s speech starts out rushed and excited, but as he continues, he gets more shy, kicking at the snow at his feet.

Beverly smiles at him warmly. “Of course we’ll help, Hanscom! How do we start?”

Ben looks at them in awe. “Really? You guys wanna help?” They all shrug and nod.

“Sure, buddy, looks like fun,” Mike offers. Ben beams before going into the explanation of how to make the igloo stable. They all start out helping. Okay, Mike thinks to himself, everyone’s _attempting_ to help. Richie’s painfully undiagnosed ADHD is getting the better of him and he keep straying to do other things: make snow angels (“Eds, come and make one with me! Oh, wait, you don’t have to - you’re an angel already!”), attempting to start snowball fights and currently, whining about the cold.

“Guys, I don’t even have snow pants!” he cries, gesturing to his jeans. “I’m all wet, just like Eddie’s mom’s -- ”

“Richie. Come on. Come help us, we’re almost done!” Beverly says, cutting him off with an insistent voice. Richie groans from where he’s sitting in the snow a few yards away and gets up. He’s walking over when he trips over his own clunky boots and almost pitches himself into the snow. He looks down and smiles in glee.

“Eds! Get your cute butt over here!” Eddie rolls his eyes.

“No. I’m not letting you distract me,” Eddie insists, focusing instead solely on the block he’s currently crafting.

“Are you sure? I think you’re really gonna like this,” Richie sings and Eddie lets out a huff, turning to Mike.

“He’s never gonna let up, man, just go over and see what he wants,” Mike chuckles. Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Fair point,” he says, trudging over to Richie who’s bent over, crouched on the ground. “What is it, Trashmouth?”

Richie looks up, mouth twisted in a mischievous smile and a glint in his eye. “This.” He then pounces on Eddie, being able to get a good spring in his leap due to his position, and Eddie goes down like a tree: hard and quickly. Eddie barely feels it at all due to the down feathers in his overcoat and starts laughing.

“You little _shit!_ ” he cries, aghast but amused, and tackles Richie right back. They roll around in the snow for a bit, wrestling, trying to pin each other down, before Eddie ends up getting Richie’s wrists in a lock above his head. He’s got his knees down around Richie’s ribs and his thighs are pressing into Richie’s waist, trying to keep him from squirming. “Ha!” he shouts. “I got you, Trashmouth.”

“Yeah,” Richie breathes. He stops wiggling around and he goes limp in Eddie’s hold. His eyes darken from the position and his baited breath from their fight gets more shallow. “You got me.”

Richie stares at Eddie for a while, eyes wide, until the satisfied look on Eddie’s face slips into something more shocked that Richie is affected by this. “Oh. Richie. I--”

“Hey, Eddie!” Mike calls. “Can you get your husband to stop fawning over you for two seconds and make him get his ass over here to help with this igloo?” They all look over then to see Eddie spring off of Richie, wiping down his coat and snow pants, trying to do anything with his hands that he can to distract himself from the heat in his cheeks, the memory of the heat in Richie’s eyes and the heat pooling low in his stomach as a result. Beverly elbows Mike hard in the ribs.

“Ow!” Mike cries. “Fuck. What, Bev?” She looks over at Eddie and Richie, and gestures madly.

“You idiot, that could’ve been The Moment!” The five in the group who aren’t Eddie and Richie have been using the term _The Moment_ to refer to, as Stanley puts it, _whenever they get their shit together and realize they’re meant to be._ It’s a familiar term among the five of them, and they all know what it means when Beverly says it. They look over to see Richie still on the ground, staring up at Eddie in wonder. He moved so that he’s leaning against his hands, elbows crooked, halfway to sitting up.

Eddie looks down at him and offers him a hand. “You getting up or what, Trashmouth?”

Richie looks at his hand, then to Eddie’s face, searching for any sign that he was as affected by that moment as Richie was, then back to his hand when he finds nothing but feigned annoyance. Richie knows by now the difference between when Eddie’s flustered and when he’s truly annoyed, but right now, his head’s spinning so fast, he can barely tell the difference. He shakes his head slightly, trying desperately to clear his thoughts, and grasps Eddie’s hand, hoisting himself up. Eddie drags Richie over, still holding his hand, and mutters _not married_ under his breath. It takes all the self-control Eddie has within him to not ask Richie why his hands are warm even though he isn’t wearing his mittens that Beverly had made them all and gifted to them last holiday season. Richie, however, is blushing a deep crimson, mind a constant stream of _hands, hands, hands, hands, hands._

Eddie deposits him at the igloo’s entrance but neither of them let go of each other’s hands. Ben stares at them, an odd look on his face.

“...You can help, too, Eddie,” Ben says slowly.

“Oh! Yeah! That’s why I’m still here!” Eddie titters unconvincingly. Richie and Eddie continue holding hands, neither one of them willing to let go first, as if holding hands is now a contest. They’re not even sure that’s what they’re doing: holding hands. They’re just… standing near one another with their hands touching. That’s all, Eddie tries to convince himself, while Richie has a slow but steady mental breakdown.

“I, uh, I…” Eddie begins, stuttering.

“Yeah?” Richie asks, so damn hopeful, begging for Eddie to continue what he was going to say when they were wrestling.

“It’s nothing. Just… your hand is warm.”

Richie nods dumbly. “Good circulation.”

“Oh,” Eddie says, staring at their joined hands now. “Good.”

“Yeah. Good.”

“Christ, this is torture!” Ben cries, and Richie and Eddie spring apart. They all look over at him sharply. Beverly looks like she wants to commit a murder. “Uh.” Ben looks down at the block in his hands. He drops it purposefully and it shatters. He looks back up at the two of them. “Fucked up my block. Sorry.”

“Uh huh. Sure,” Richie says, suspiciously. “Very convincing.”

“Just help us out, Trashmouth,” Beverly sighs to Richie’s salute.

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

* * *

 

Georgie Denbrough knows better than anyone that the holiday season is a time for family, and while he feels perfectly at home with his parents and Bill as the four of them hoist their Christmas tree up the porch steps, he cannot help but feel like somebody is missing. Or rather, six somebodies.

“Billy!” the little boy cries out gleefully from where he’s positioned near the top of the tree, he and his mother both holding its point with their gloved hands while his big brother and their father support the opposite end. Snow is rolling off of its branches in mounds, accumulated over a couple days, and Georgie thinks their tree might just be the best darn Christmas tree in all of Derry, Maine. “Can our friends come over and help decorate?” he asks, and Bill smiles warmly at the affection in his brother’s tone, at the fact that he refers to the other Losers as _their_ friends; the older boy is touched by the sentiment, and he’s sure every last one of them would be, too.

“That’s a question for Mama and Dad, buddy,” Bill responds, gritting his teeth a bit as they guide the tree in through the front door as it is currently being propped open with Terri Denbrough’s boot-clad foot. They manage to make it inside, depositing the tree in its usual place in the corner of their living-room just beside the fireplace. “You know I never mind having the company…” he adds as he dusts a few snowflakes off of his shoulders. Georgie grins at him through a few branches from the other side of the tree, the space where one of his teeth had fallen out making him look criminally adorable, and he whirls around quickly to face their father where he’s kneeling placing the tree skirt around its stump.

“Daddy, can our friends come? Can they, can they, can they?” he shouts, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and he tugs on Zachary Denbrough’s coat sleeve impatiently. _“Puh-leeease…”_ Zachary pushes on his knees, straightening up once again before looking down at his youngest son with a reserved but fond smile.

“So long as you and Bill promise not to make a mess, I guess it’s alright,” he nods, and Georgie hugs himself to his father’s thighs with a delighted squeal as he pats the little boy’s head, ruffling his hair. He turns towards Bill and nods once in his direction before heading back into his office to finish up the work his wife and children had interrupted, all of them pleading that they finally venture to pick out a tree as Christmas is drawing closer and closer with each passing day. Terri watches her husband retreat back down the hallway, fighting off her frown in favor of an adoring smile as she wraps one arm around each of her boys.

“Why don’t you boys go call everyone over and I’ll find the stuff for the gingerbread houses?” she prompts, and both Bill and Georgie’s faces light up. It has been a Denbrough tradition since their father was a little boy to make gingerbread houses, something that their grandfather had let slip one year in spite of Zachary’s lengthy attempts to seem like he’s never had an ounce of fun in his life. (“Your old man wasn’t always such a stick in the mud, William,” he would reassure a younger Bill as he sat perched on the old man’s lap, constructing his gingerbread house. “He used to crack a smile every now and again, so don’t let him fool you...”) Terri keeps a huge tin of baking supplies for this precise occasion, and it is always a much anticipated event when it is finally brought down.

Georgie claps his hands together excitedly and makes a mad dash for the telephone with his big brother hot on his heels, the pair of them leaving their mother to head into the kitchen. The little boy stretches on his toes, reaching for the telephone where it hangs on the wall, and when Bill reaches him, he hooks his hands beneath Georgie’s armpits and lifts him up to where he can grab it and press it to his ear.

“Who should we call first, Billy?” Georgie chimes, and Bill taps his chin, feigning deep concentration as his little brother mimics him to a tee, both of their eyes narrowing playfully as they gaze at one another, mutually coming to a decision in a way that can only make sense to siblings close as them.

 _“Richie,”_ both Denbroughs say in perfect unison, and Bill dials the Tozier residence, still allowing Georgie to hold the phone while pressing his ear as close to it as he can, wanting to hear when the other boy picked up, and when Richie’s voice finally comes through the other end, Georgie almost leaps out of Bill’s grip.

“Tozier residence?” he asks, and he’s met with a giggle he would recognize anywhere. “My, my, my. That couldn’t be my favorite Georgie Denbrough in the world, now could it?” he wonders, and Bill can hear the smile in his friend’s voice.

“Hiyah, Richie!” Georgie shouts, and Richie chuckles happily.

“Hi, buddy - what can I do for ya? Billy okay?”

“I’m j-just fine, Rich,” Bill promises, “we were just callin’ to a-a-ask if --”

“If you wanted to come make gingerbread houses with us and decorate our tree and drink hot cocoa!” Georgie blurts out, practically buzzing in his big brother’s arms. “Mama makes the hot cocoa just right so it doesn’t never ever burn my mouth! You gotta try some, Richie, it’s so yummy, and you’re really tall so you can help us get ornaments on the high-up branches and -- ”

“Whoa, whoa, buddy, take a breather, huh?” Richie says, an unmistakable fondness in his voice. “I would love to join in on the holiday cheer at the Denbrough house…” Bill does not miss the wistfulness in his friend’s tone; he knows how rough holidays can be for Richie what with his mother’s problems and the way his sister treats him, so it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that Richie would yearn for a happier setting. Bill forces the smile to stay firm on his face so as not to draw questions from Georgie. “What time do the festivities commence?”

“Wh-When everybody shows up,” Bill says, and Richie lets out a whoop.

“I’m on my way!” he promises just before hanging up, and Georgie turns to Bill with a wide grin.

“Stanny next!” he insists, and Bill punches in the telephone number for the Uris household, taking the receiver carefully out of Georgie’s hand until he is sure Stanley is the one to answer the call. He himself knows how much he hates having to speak to Donald Uris, and so he will not subject his little brother to dealing with Stanley’s father if it can be avoided. He breathes a sigh of relief when Robin Uris answers the phone instead.

“Hello?” she asks, voice airy.

“G-Good afternoon, Mrs. Uris,” Bill responds, and his shoulders relax even more when she seems to brighten on the opposite end.

“Oh, hello, William. How can I help you?” she asks kindly.

“Is St-Stanley home, m-m-m’am?”

“Yes, he is,” Robin replies, and then she must place the phone to her shoulder because Bill hears her muffled shout of _“Stanley, sweetheart - phone call!”_ before the volume of her voice returns to normal. “How’s Mom and Dad, dear?”

“They’re g-g-good, m’am…”

“And little Georgie?”

“Hey, that’s me!” the little boy pipes up from Bill’s side, and he hears Robin chuckle.

“Why, hello to you too, Georgie,” she adds, and her son must join her then, because the next thing she says is, “You two say hello to your parents for me - and a Merry Christmas to your family!”

“What’s up, you two?” Stanley asks at precisely the same time as Georgie begins to shout.

“Stanny, come make gingerbread houses!”

“Oh, say no more, little man - I’m already halfway out the door…”

 

Bill and Georgie wrangle up the rest of the crew relatively quickly as Eddie and Beverly had both been at the latter’s apartment working on their final English project before the start of Christmas break, the pair incredibly grateful for the distraction. Mike and Ben were at the Hanlon farm, working on restoring one of the chicken coops that had grown worn over the years when Mike’s grandfather had called them inside to answer the phone, and both boys had accepted the invitation without a thought, packing up and like Eddie and Beverly, residing to return to their work another day.

Once everyone has arrived, the brothers lead them into the kitchen where they find Terri Denbrough bustling about, setting everything for the gingerbread houses in place on the counter while whirling to check on the hot cocoa she’s brewing up for her sons and their friends.

“Thank you for having us over, Mrs. Denbrough,” Beverly says just as the woman turns the stove off before rounding the island to hug her. She waves her hand in the air between them once they separate again, keeping an arm coiled around the young girl’s shoulders.

“I love having a full house,” Terri promises smiling at each of them, “you are all always welcome, you know that. If you need anything, I’ll be in the study.” She kisses both of her boys’ heads and makes her way through the kitchen and down the hall, turning to call over her shoulder, “And be sure to let me know who wins!”

“Wins?” Ben repeats slowly, brow furrowing skeptically. “Wins _what?”_ Bill and Georgie turn to face one another, the smirks on their faces so fiendishly identical its almost uncanny.

“Oh, uh… Did Georgie and I f-f-forget to tell you that the g-gingerbread house decorating is a c-c-contest?” Bill asks playfully, and Georgie stifles a fit of giggles behind both of his hands. “Silly us, huh, buddy?” Stanley’s eyes brighten at the prospect of competition, never being one to turn down a chance to play a game, no matter what it is.

“Are there rules?” he wonders, eyes already scanning the layout of cookies, icing, and utensils, the spokes and cogs in his head almost visible as he starts already to build strategy. Stanley is a sportsman, no matter the field he’s on, and while his baking skills aren’t necessarily that grand, he can put up one hell of a fight when he really wants to win, and Stanley Uris _always_ wants to win.

“Just have fun!” Georgie insists. “That’s what Pop-Pop always says, right, Billy?”

“That’s right, Georgie,” Bill nods just as Richie scrambles forward, claiming his area of the counter and reaching for a few pieces of gingerbread, a wily grin on his face as the rest of them all follow suit.

“You’re all going _down_ ,” Richie decrees, and Mike scoffs from his left side, not even looking up from where he’d already begun to form the foundation of his own gingerbread house.

“Yeah, okay - we’ll see about that, Tozier,” he mumbles under his breath, and then there is nothing but silence as everyone becomes engulfed with the task at hand. Georgie and Bill both take off like bullets, building their houses almost at light speed.

“Hey! You two shouldn’t be allowed to compete!” Beverly protests playfully, bumping her shoulder against Bill’s. “You do this every year, you have an unfair advantage!”

“All’s f-fair in love and war, Beverly,” Bill teases back with a wink, and Beverly blushes down at the icing tool in her hands, her cheeks turning nearly the same shade of red as her hair. Eddie is fast at work beside her, his tongue poking out slightly from how concentrated he is on icing the tiny windows of his gingerbread house, and Bill beams watching him. “Lookin’ good, Eds,” he insists with a nod, and Eddie blinks, turning towards his friend with a proud smile and a slight blush.

“Gee, thanks, Bill,” he replies before turning back to his work, and Bill’s eyes slowly survey the rest of the group, landing on Stanley next where he stood just across from him on the opposite side of the counter.

Stanley’s gingerbread house is very much how one would expect it to be - neat. The corners of each edge match up damn-near perfectly and there isn’t a drop of icing out of place. The miniature marshmallows used for shingles are all evenly spaced and Bill is almost certain if he were to whip out a ruler, the pretzels forming the windows on either side of the door made from three chocolate squares would all be the same length. Bill chuckles fondly at the determined look in Stanley’s eye, knowing it well and always happy to see him focused on something _fun._

He must feel eyes on him, because Stanley looks up then and smiles at Bill quickly before he feels Georgie tug on his shirt sleeve, asking him to pass the bowl of gumdrops down. Bill’s gaze flickers to his little brother’s house then, and his whole heart swells in his chest when he sees how extravagant it is. It _always_ is, every single year, but this year the little Denbrough boy must be trying to show off for his friends because Bill hasn’t seen such an explosion of color as this since the time Richie insisted they have a _paint_ balloon fight instead of a water balloon fight a few summers ago. Georgie shoves his hand into the bowl of gumdrops, grabbing a fistful, and sprinkles them atop the roof, letting them take hold wherever he’d painted the icing on, a gleeful, toothy grin on his little round face as he laughs, and everyone else halts momentarily in their building to relish in the sound.

“You got some real competition there, Rich,” Eddie says gravely, jerking his chin towards Georgie, and Richie lets out a sigh of defeat.

“I believe you’re right, Spaghetti Man,” he admits. “I think Georgie here might just take it all!” Georgie giggles again and shakes his head.

“Game’s not over yet, Richie!” he promises. “Keep going ‘til the end, right, Stanny?”

“That’s right,” Stanley nods, holding his hand up for a high-five that Georgie immediately provides before linking their fingers together. The little boy lets their clasped hands drop to swing between them, and Stanley doesn’t even mind that the kid's fingers are sticky and coated with chocolate. Georgie Denbrough is the cleanest, most pure thing that Stanley Uris knows, of that much he is absolutely positive.

“I like your house, Stanny!” he cheers, and Stanley puffs his chest out proudly, sure that no complement could ever compare.

“Well, then I’ve already won,” Stanley decides, shrugging, and he hugs the little boy close to his side before they separate to once again tend to their creations. A mild scuffle sounds from a ways down the counter, and Bill tears his eyes away from his little brother to turn instead towards Richie. To call the mess in front of his friend a gingerbread house would be a bit too generous, even for Bill; the structure Richie has been attempting to build appears to be caving in from all of the icing he’s piling onto the roof, but as Bill watches him sprinkle powdered sugar over it with a wild flick of his wrist and put on his best Swedish Chef Voice while he does it, he thinks Richie could have fun doing just about anything, whether he’s the best at it or not.

A few moments later, tragedy strikes.

 _“Michael!”_ Richie cries out, sounding more dramatic than even his friends have ever heard, and they all whip around suddenly to look at him as he points wildly at the boy beside him. “You _animal!_ You _ate_ Bartholomew!” he yells, and Bill snorts when he sees a half-eaten gingerbread man clutched in Mike’s hand.

“You _named_ your gingerbread man?” Ben asks as Georgie giggles, and Richie snatches what remains of Bartholomew out of Mike’s grip, cradling the amputated cookie to his chest and looking damn near close to tears in a way that even Stanley has to admit is impressive.

“How is Bartholomew going to support his wife and children with only _one leg,_ Michael?!” Richie shouts, shooting daggers at his friend with his eyes, and Mike folds his arms across his chest.

“People can support their families in spite of disabilities, Rich - that’s ableist,” he deadpans, and Richie flushes vibrantly.

“Okay, okay! Point taken!” he relents, waving a stick of red licorice in the air in a show of surrender. “But you still _marred_ this beautiful man of ginger!”

“Sure did,” Mike shrugs with a chuckle. “He was delicious!” he cries, and everyone laughs except Richie, who is clearing an area on the counter to put the gingerbread man down carefully so as not to break it any further.

“While you _cannibals_ jest and make light,” he jabs and Georgie turns to Eddie to ask what ‘cannibals’ means. Eddie politely ignores the little boy and instead redirects his attention back to Richie, “ _I_ will be performing emergency surgery.”

 _“What?”_ Beverly cries before losing herself to a fit of giggles, masking their shrillness with her hand as she watches Richie make a huge show of examining the broken cookie. He presses his ear to its chest and Ben is howling while Mike bangs his fist on the counter, tears springing to his eyes as Richie snatches up Eddie’s wrist to stare intently at his watch.

“His pulse is slow! We’re losing him!” Richie cries, and Eddie is in stitches, clutching his side and nearly falling into Stanley, who is shaking his head in disbelief at their friend but unable to keep an amused grin from sliding onto his face. “Quick, Dr. K, scalpel!”

“Can’t -- ” Eddie wheezes out in between cackles, wiping at his eyes, and Richie scoffs.

“Is _anyone_ going to help me save this man’s life?” he shouts, and Georgie throws his hand into the air immediately.

“Ooh! Ooh! Me! Me!” he cheers, running quickly to Richie’s aid with a gingerbread square in his hands. “We can make Bartholomew a new leg out of this, Richie!”

“Well, a brilliant plan!” Richie decrees. “I knew you would be a huge asset to the department, Dr. Denbrough,” he says, clapping the little boy on the back and smiling widely when Georgie beams up at him. “Have at it, my boy!” He waves Georgie closer to the counter, lifting him onto a bar-stool so that he can reach better, and together they chisel out a leg-shaped piece of gingerbread, impervious to their friends around them who are all still hysterical. Richie carefully lines the jagged edges of the gingerbread man’s broken leg with icing so that Georgie can fasten the newly crafted limb to the cookie, and once it is back in one piece, both boys let out a triumphant cheer. “He’s saved! He’s saved! You did it, Georgie!”

 _“We_ did it, Richie!” the little boy corrects, holding his hand up for a high-five. “Teamwork!”

“Makes the dream work!” a voice suddenly calls from behind them all, and Georgie spins around towards where it had come from, his little face lighting up at the sight of his grandfather standing in the threshold of the kitchen, watching them all with a starry-eyed look.

“Pop-Pop!” Georgie squeals, leaping off of the bar-stool to bolt towards the elderly man, and George Denbrough scoops his grandson into his arms happily, holding him close to his chest. Bill is not far behind, and so the old man tosses his free arm out so that Bill can hug him, too, his long arms snaking around his grandfather’s belly. “We didn’t know you were coming over!”

“I know, I know,” George Denbrough chuckles as he kisses both boys on their heads. “That’s because it was a _surprise,_ ” he explains in a hushed tone, his blue eyes bright, the exact same eyes as his little namesake. “Were you surprised, Georgie?”

“Uh-huh!” Georgie admits, bouncing in his grandfather’s arms. “ _Super_ surprised, Pop-Pop! Good job!”

“Why thank you!” the old man chuckles, and then he turns to face the rest of the teenagers. “My, my, my, Bill - I see we’ve expanded the contest, huh?” he asks, smiling brightly at the sight before him. He recognizes all of Bill’s friends, having met each of them over the years whenever he would travel down from Massachusetts to visit his grandchildren. “Is this Stanley Uris?” he asks, mild shock in his voice as he moves to place a wrinkled hand on the boy’s shoulder. “My goodness, last I saw you, you were only this tall!” he places his hand level with his hip, and Stanley laughs brightly.

“It’s nice to see you, Mr. Denbrough,” he insists. “How was the drive down with all the snow?”

“Oh, it wasn’t too too bad,” George insists. “And I do believe I told you during my last visit to call me Pop-Pop,” he reminds, patting the boy’s shoulder. “I’m much too young to be called ‘Mr. Denbrough,’ after all...” Richie lets out a cackle.

“Good joke, Pop-Pop!” he cries, and George claps the other boy firmly on the back, beaming at him.

“Why, who am I to receive such a compliment from the master jokester himself!” he shouts, and Richie is practically over the moon. “How’s life treating you, Richie?”

“Can’t complain, Pop-Pop,” Richie shrugs. “Eds and I are getting along swimmingly, we’ll be sure to send you an invite to the engagement party -- ”

 _“Richie!”_ Eddie admonishes from where he’s still standing at the counter, looking warily at Bill’s grandfather, waiting for some sign of disgust, some form of scolding, but George Denbrough is about as capable of malice as his eldest grandson.

“Oh, Richie, I see you’re still _torturing_ Eddie, then,” the old man chuckles, and he reaches out to ruffle Eddie’s hair affectionately before leaning down towards him. He feigns whispering by holding his hand up, but he makes no effort to lower his voice at all, and so the whole kitchen hears him say, “If you ever need any help seeking your revenge, you know my phone number -- ”

“Hey!” Richie bellows, although he cannot help but smile when he hears Eddie start to laugh, sees the grin on his face as he leans against George’s shoulder.

“Thanks, Pop-Pop, I’ll definitely remember that…” Eddie says, and George gives him a one-armed hug before refocusing his attention on Mike.

“Michael!” he calls, holding his arms out and smiling when Mike darts into them immediately. “How’s Grandpa?” he asks when he pulls back to get a good look at the young man. He remembers hearing years ago about the tragic fire that stole a young couple away from their little boy, and when Terri had told him upon one of his visits that his Bill had befriended the grief-ridden boy, George could not have been more proud of his grandson. “Still working hard?”

“Yeah, you know Gramps…” Mike replies, and George nods with a chuckle. “Man never rests…”

“Well, how could he? He’s got a growing boy to provide for! My goodness, what is in the water down here that’s got all of you boys shooting up like beanstalks on me?” George chuckles brightly, and then his gaze lands on Beverly, eyes softening. “Me-oh-my, Miss Beverly, haven’t you gotten wise and left all these clowns in the dust yet?” he wonders. Beverly throws her head back with a laugh that seems to fill the whole room, and it brings a smile to everyone’s face.

“I’m workin’ on it, Pop-Pop,” she promises, hugging the elderly man round his middle, and he pats her back lightly as he chuckles. “I’ll have to tell Auntie that you dropped by…”

“Oh, yes, please! And send her my absolute best!” George Denbrough insists. “Marvel of a woman your aunt is - but she’d have to be to raise a young lady like you.” He bops her nose affectionately and Beverly thinks that she knows just where Bill got his kind and gentle soul from, that Terri and Zachary Denbrough were right to name Georgie after this man. Beverly thinks that if every man on earth was even just a little like George Denbrough, the world might just be that much nicer of a place.

There is only one member of the group that Bill and Georgie’s grandfather does not recognize, a quiet, short and stout boy who has been watching this scene unfold before him with a small, bemused grin, keeping to himself where he stands in the corner, but this does not stop the old man from tossing his hand out in Ben’s direction, a brilliant, almost blinding smile on his face.

“George Denbrough,” he says. “But ‘round here, I’m known as Pop-Pop by my grandbabies and all their friends, and I figure if you’re in this kitchen, then it’s because my Bill thinks you’re a pretty extraordinary person. He hasn’t been wrong yet,” he winks in Bill’s direction, and Bill smiles from ear to ear, nodding firmly to confirm his grandfather’s words. “What’s your name, son?”

“Ben -- Ben Hanscom…” the boy answers, and he wraps his hand around George’s, shaking it. “I moved to Derry over the summer…”

“Well, that would explain why I didn’t recognize you, son. You see, I never forget a face. If I could, I certainly would have opted to forget Richie’s by now,” he adds after a moment’s pause, and the whole room erupts, all of the children hysterical, even Richie, who never gets offended as long as the joke is good and _especially_ if it’s told by George Denbrough, as he knows he is absolutely kidding.

“That’s two in one day, Pop-Pop!” Richie cheers. “You’re on a roll and gunnin’ right for my crown!” George tosses his arm around Richie’s shoulders and brings the young man into his space, laughing along with him. Bill suddenly looks quickly in his grandfather’s direction from where he’s still doubled over with laughter.

“Say, Pop-Pop, you’re un-unbiased!” he says between gasps for breath. “You wanna j-j-judge the gingerbread house contest for us?”

“Why that would be the greatest honor of my young life!” George Denbrough declares with so much clarity it would be impossible not to believe him. “How much longer do you kiddos need before I can get to surveyin’ the handiwork?” All of the children share a quiet glance.

“Honestly, Pop-Pop,” Richie says gravely, looking at his mess of a gingerbread house where it lies nearly in shambles in front of him on the counter, “it’s not gonna get much better than what we’ve already got here… Wouldn’t you agree, fellas?” They all nod, and George chuckles.

“Well, alrighty, then - let’s have a looksie…” he muses, and he adjusts the glasses on his nose as he starts to circle the counter, peering intently at each of the teen’s gingerbread houses. He places his hand on Richie’s shoulder when he gets to his and whispers, “Richie, my boy, please never change…” and Richie thinks that is better even than winning the contest as he smiles so wide his face threatens to split in two. George hums approvingly at Stanley’s and Eddie’s alike, praises his younger grandson for his extraordinary use of color, tells Beverly that she could very well have a career in interior design (“Are those _couches_ made out of _gumdrops?_ ”), and insists that Bill has made his best gingerbread house yet. “Michael, is this an exact replica of your farm?” George gasps, bending forward to get a closer look, and the young man beside him chuckles.

“It was certainly supposed to be,” Mike says.

“I can definitely see a resemblance!” the old man insists, giving him a thumbs up before moving on to the final gingerbread house, the one belonging to the quiet boy, to Ben Hanscom. George Denbrough looks warmly at the boy before averting his gaze to take in the sight of his creation, and his already present smile blooms until it seems to shroud his whole face in light. Ben Hanscom’s gingerbread house looks like it rolled right out of a Martha Stewart catalogue that George’s late wife might have kept on their coffee table. It is small, almost cottage-like in its structure; a wreath crafted from green icing hangs over the door made from chocolate-covered pretzel sticks, and there is even a Christmas tree built out of Hershey kisses sitting nicely just outside one of the chocolate-square windows. The roof is trimmed with white lace piping that makes George wonder if the boy hasn’t had some practice doing this. “Bakers in your family, Ben?” he asks, and the boy turns pink.

“My mom… She, uh -- ” he falters a bit, and he feels a hand on his shoulder that he does not need to look up to know belongs to Beverly. “She used to bake with me all the time before she passed away.” George Denbrough hums, and he too places a hand on Ben’s shoulder, giving a light squeeze that draws the boy’s bleary eyes up from his shoes to meet the old man’s gaze.

“I’m sure she’d be right proud of you today, son,” he says sweetly, and Ben smiles back at him, letting a tear escape his eye to roll down his cheek, sure that no one in his company would shame him for it. “I think it goes without saying who our winner is, children,” George says this a bit louder, wrapping his arm around Ben and shaking him a bit.

“Way to go, Hanscom!” Richie cheers raucously, and the rest of his friends join in as well. Eddie and Stanley both pat Ben on his back just before Beverly stretches on her toes to kiss his cheek sweetly. Mike claps him on the back sharply before pulling him into a hug, and Georgie runs to hug the boy around his legs.

“You did it, Benny!” the little boy praises, smiling up at him. “You won! And on your first try, too!”

“Congrats, Ben!” Bill cries, his grin the brightest of all, and Ben smiles back wetly.

“Thank you, guys,” he whispers, and George claps his hands together.

“Mikey,” Beverly suddenly chimes, “please tell me you brought your camera!” The boy grins.

“When do I not have my camera on me, Marsh?” he chuckles, heading over to where he’d left his bag on one of the dining room chairs. He digs inside it for a moment until he retrieves his Polaroid camera, and he tosses the strap around his neck before calling, “Alright, just one of the champion and his masterpiece, first - smile pretty, Hanscom!” Ben puts his thumbs up and grins, putting his face beside his gingerbread house, and Mike waits for his camera to focus. _Click._ “Oh, that’s bound to be a beauty!” he insists, taking the photo from where it had been spit out and shaking it so that it develops quicker.

“Hand over that camera, Michael, and I’ll take one of all you kids,” George insists, and Mike obeys happily, jumping back into the shot and whirling around to grin along with all of his friends, their arms thrown around one another as they smile over their gingerbread houses. _Click._ “Wonderful!” the old man declares, returning the camera back to Mike, who places it safely back in his bag. “Now, unless my nose is finally going ‘round the bend on me, I think I smell my daughter-in-law’s hot cocoa brewing on that stove over there...” he crosses the kitchen floor to peer into the pot, the excitement on his face making him look remarkably like Georgie, who is right on his tail.

“Your nose is right, Pop-Pop!” he insists. “Is it done yet?”

“Looks to be just about done, Georgie,” the old man says, stirring it a bit. “Who’s up for hot cocoa?” Bill fetches some mugs from the cabinet over the stove and sets them out on the counter. He assists his grandfather in pouring the cocoa into them and tops each one off with some whipped cream and chocolate shavings before passing one to each of his friends.

“C-Careful, Georgie,” he says when he hands a mug to the little boy. “It’s st-still a little h-h-hot...” Georgie takes a cautious sip of the drink and when he looks up again at his brother, it’s with a huge grin on his face and a dollop of whipped cream on his nose. “Good?” Bill chuckles brightly, and Georgie nods before turning to lead the others into the living-room to start in on decorating the Christmas tree. Bill hangs back in the kitchen with his grandfather, plopping the last of the whipped cream into his own mug and taking a sip while the old man leans against the counter beside him.

“You’ve got some wonderful friends, William,” his grandfather insists, smiling at him over the mountain of whipped cream floating in his mug. “You hold onto them, you hear me?”

“Y-Yeah, Pop-Pop, I hear you…” Bill replies, and then he grows quiet for a moment. George Denbrough’s brow furrows, recognizing the look in his grandson’s eyes as one of deep thought, and so he bumps his shoulder against Bill’s carefully, drawing his gaze back up towards him.

“What’s got your goat, son?” he wonders, and Bill sighs.

“Pop-Pop… wh-what do you d-d-d--” Bill’s eyes close in frustration, and he sucks in a sharp, calculated breath before continuing, “what happens when you like someone who’s b-b-been through a lot? Maybe t-t-too much and… and you don’t want to h-h-hurt them?” George hums and looks off out the window over the sink for a moment, watching the snow as it falls delicately, catching on the trees dotting the Denbrough’s backyard.

“Be something that could never hurt them,” he answers simply. “Be a pillar. Be an uncrackable foundation for them to rebuild on new ground…” He places a hand on Bill’s shoulder, smiling down at him. “For the record, I don’t think you could ever hurt Beverly, son -- ”

 _“Pop-Pop,”_ Bill flushes a brilliant crimson, whipping around to make sure that the girl has not re-entered the kitchen, that she could not have possibly heard what they were talking about. George starts to chuckle warmly and pulls his grandson closer to him. “H-How did you know I was t-t-talking about Bev?”

“Oh, son - I may be gettin’ up there in age, but I’m not stupid,” he shoots back, winking at him sweetly, and it’s Bill’s turn to laugh. “Take it from an old man, there isn’t a better thing you could be in this world than kind. And a girl like Beverly? Well, she deserves nothing less, leagues more, and I think you know that…” His eyes almost twinkle when he looks at Bill over the glasses perched on his nose. “You care for her?”

Bill nods. “Yes.”

“Then be there for her.”

 

* * *

 

Stanley is in the midst of hoisting the last of the fairy lights onto the tree he’d all but begged his mother to let him get for the basement when he suddenly hears footsteps on the stairs with voices following suit, growing louder until he hears the dulcet tones of one Richie Tozier calling, “Stan the Man, I hope you’re decent down there - my virgin eyes can only take so much and Eds already gave me quite a show earlier…”

“You are beyond a shadow of a doubt, the worst person I have ever met,” Eddie’s voice is the next one Stanley hears, and soon he can see them as they hop down the last few remaining steps onto the basement’s carpeted floor.

Richie takes in the sight of the fairy lights, his face brightening. “Say,” he begins in one of his Voices, this time a nasally old woman that Stanley immediately recognizes, “ _is your basem--?”_ Stanley slaps his hand over Richie’s mouth in an instant.

“If you ask me if my basement is on fire, I will murder you in your sleep,” he deadpans, and Eddie giggles.

Richie nods so that Stanley releases him, but not before licking his palm.

“I fucking hate you.”

“You’re welcome!” Richie sings as Stanley is finally able to take a good look at his friends; each boy is weighed down by at least two coats, only Eddie is also sporting a scarf, gloves, a hat, and earmuffs.

“Eddie, is that you in there?” Stanley asks through his chuckles, and Richie snorts while Eddie throws his neatly-wrapped gift for their Secret Santa into Stanley’s waiting arms.

“Fuck you,” Eddie grins as he unravels the scarf from his throat and kicks off his snow-boots, wiggling his toes to warm them up again. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are bright red and wind-bitten.

“Where’s everyone else?” Richie asks as he cleans his glasses with the hem of his sweater; the lenses fogged up due to the drastic change in temperature from outside to the basement.

“They should be here any minute,” Stanley replies as he takes the gift Richie’s brought and adds it to the table with Eddie’s and his own; they’d all purchased the exact same wrapping paper and agreed to shuffle the gifts around so that they’d all really have to think hard to guess who’d gotten who what.

No sooner did he say that than he was looking up sharply at the sound of more pairs of boot-clad feet on the stairs. Beverly, Ben, Mike, and Bill all file into the basement then, one after the other, each with a gift in tow and a dusting of snow in their hair. Beverly is laughing and Mike is looking slightly sour.

“What’s the matter, Mikey? You weren’t a good boy this year?” Richie wonders.

“Mike slipped on Stan’s driveway,” Ben explains, and Bill snorts at the memory as Beverly is still struggling to regain her composure.

“I looked up because I heard a yell and then -- ” she falls victim to an onslaught of giggles, “I just see his legs fly up in the air…”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s hilarious, but my ass is gonna be purple for a week,” Mike grumbles as he hands his gift over to Stan.

“Oh, c’mon, Mikey - no Scrooges on Christmas!” Richie declares, throwing his arm around the older boy’s waist and guiding him to the sofa.

“It’s December 10th, Richie,” Mike responds. “We had the party halfway in between Christmas and Chanukah to be sensitive to Stan.”

“Okay, don’t bust my balls over technicalities. Here, here, rest your ass. And your pride.” Mike shoves him, but he’s grinning, too, and then they’re all laughing together.

“You boys should just be lucky that _I_ didn’t fall on my way in,” Beverly insists as she swings her bookbag off her shoulder to hold it in front of her while she digs inside it. “Because if _this,_ ” she pulls out a bottle of wine and is met with a chorus of cheers, “had shattered, we would’ve had a _lot_ of explaining to do.”

“W-Where’d you get that, Bev?” Bill wonders.

“Oh, I guess you could say I have sticky fingers and Mr. Keene has poor eyesight,” she smirks, wiggling her fingers.

“Ah, Bevs, I always knew you weren’t just a pretty face,” Richie sighs dreamily, snatching the bottle from her. “Stanley, you got something we can use to pop this sucker open?”

 

It’s Richie who suggests playing Spin the Bottle, and maybe if the rest of them were in their right minds and not stumbling about the Uris basement in a tipsy stupor, they might have shut that thought down. Even Eddie, who decided not to drink tonight, blushes crimson at the proposal, but says nothing. As it is, none of them feel the need to object when Richie pulls a bundle of mistletoe from where Bill had taped it over the threshold when he got there, much to Stanley’s confusion. (“What the fuck are you putting a plant on the ceiling for?” “It’s mistletoe, Stan!” “Mistletoe is commonly found on the West Coast.” “You’re no fun!”) He wiggles it onto the neck of the empty wine bottle.

 _“Hello, everyone! Hello, everyone!”_ Richie calls, and the rest of them groan. Eddie reaches for the jar already stuffed full with coins on the countertop labeled _National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation Jar_ and places it wordlessly on the coffee table. “You’re gonna have to get my wallet, big boy,” Richie teases, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Oh, fuck - where is it?” Eddie whines, but Richie only smirks.

“ _Any_ pocket is a pocket I don’t want to witness Eddie fishing around in,” Mike bellows from his place on the sofa, and the rest of them laugh. Beverly is sprawled across the sofa, her legs dangling over one of its arms and her head resting comfortably on Mike’s leg. Bill and Stanley are squished together on the love seat while Ben, Eddie, and Richie have taken to the floor. Bambino is snoring in his bed near the sofa, the quiet rumbles sounding almost like white noise.

“Ladies first,” Richie says, waving the bottle beneath Beverly’s nose. She pushes herself into a sitting position immediately and swings her legs around to join them on the floor when Richie hands her the bottle, never one to shy from a challenge, least of all from him. Mike follows, taking his place between her and Eddie. Bill and Stanley are the last to make their way to the floor, and Beverly is just about to spin the bottle when Richie calls, “Wait! Rules… If you land on the same person twice, you have to, uh… _spice it up._ ”

Beverly rolls her eyes. “Yeah, sure - let me spin the damn thing, Tozier…” And so she does, and the bottle twirls at the center of the circle three times before losing its momentum and coming to rest with the neck pointing directly at Mike. Beverly grins. “Oh, _finally,_ I’ve only been waiting my whole life to kiss Michael Hanlon,” she sighs dramatically, flinging herself into Mike’s waiting arms as they both laugh. Mike plants a single quick kiss on her smiling lips before ruffling her fiery curls with his hand. For all of the unwanted physical contact that's happened to her in her life, Beverly has honestly never felt safer.

“Nicely done,” Richie comments, clapping slowly. “I give it a whoppin’ six out of ten.” Mike and Beverly flip him off in perfect unison. “Your turn to spin, Mikey,” he continues, unphased, and Mike scoops the bottle into his hand, kisses it, and then spins it sharply; it spins longer than it did for Beverly, making it around two extra times before screeching to a halt right in line with Ben.

“Aww, Haystack - let’s go, pretty boy,” Mike coos sweetly, beckoning to the other boy from across the circle. Ben, flushed from both the sentiment and the alcohol coursing through his veins, crawls to the other side of the circle so that Mike can grab a hold of his face and kiss him chastely. Somebody - probably Richie - wolf-whistles as they separate and Ben rolls his eyes before taking the bottle from Mike.

“I’m honored to be your first kiss, Benjamin,” Mike insists, bowing his head, and Ben shoves his shoulder fondly, knowing that he means it wholeheartedly.

“Wouldn’t have had it any other way, Mikey,” Ben says cheekily, but it's clear he means it, too. Ben has never been too worried about how his first kiss would go, and as far as any other alternative, he thinks Mike Hanlon is the perfect person for him to have as his. He winds the bottle up a bit before letting it go with a flick of his wrist, and it spins just twice before landing on Stanley.

“Oh, be careful with our little Stanley, Benjamin - he’s delicate,” Richie insists, a hand flying to his mouth in mock concern as Stanley pushes himself onto his knees to lean across Richie’s lap and lets Ben kiss him fully on the mouth. _“Oh, my stars!”_ Richie shrieks in his Southern belle Voice, fanning his face with an imaginary handkerchief. “Is it hot in here or is it just me?”

“You’re a real piece of work, Trashmouth,” Stanley decides as Ben passes him the bottle, and his worst fear comes true when it lands on Bill. _Fuck,_ Stanley thinks, his mind beginning to whirl. He feels his chest tighten and his fingers twitch and he wonders briefly if this is how Eddie feels when he has a panic attack, if the twisting of one’s stomach and the feeling of one’s heart swelling to push through your ribs is something normal to feel when faced with the task of kissing one of your best friends. _No,_ Stanley decides in an instant, _there’s nothing fucking normal about this._ He looks to where Bill is sitting beside him, hands folded in his lap, just waiting for Stanley to lean over and kiss him because that’s the game they’re playing and there’s nothing more to it - so _why_ does this seem so different from all the other kisses that just happened? Why didn’t his heart threaten to stop mid-beat when Ben had brought their lips together? Why could Beverly throw herself so carelessly into Mike’s embrace and let him kiss her, and why could they laugh it off, brush it aside like it was a joke? _A game,_ he hisses to himself. _Fucking get a grip, Stanley, it’s just a game. You can play games._

“While we’re young, Uris,” Richie drones, tapping Eddie’s watch. “At this rate, it’ll be Christmas before you get going. C’mon now, Billy Boy’s lookin’ lonely.”

 _“Beep beep, Richie,”_ Eddie whispers sternly, yanking his arm out of the other boy’s grasp, and his eyes flicker to Stanley’s. Something passes between them that the two won’t come to fully understand for a while, but Stanley does know he’s grateful for Eddie in that moment. He smiles at him, and Eddie nods in response.

Stanley turns then to face Bill for the first time head-on and _Jesus,_ have his eyes always been so blue? He gulps and he thinks he sees something in those eyes, some soft, silent reassurance, a wordless _it’s okay_ that only Bill Denbrough could be capable of _,_ and so Stanley closes the distance between them and fits his lips to the other boy’s. Bill jolts slightly, eyes still open as he grows rigid for just a moment before his shoulders relax, his eyes flutter shut and he leans into the kiss with a muffled sigh that goes right to Stanley’s head.

He thinks back to last spring when he had kissed Ariella Weizmann in a mad attempt to convince himself that he could like girls, that he could push his true feelings so far inward he’d be able to masquerade as if they weren’t even there; that kiss had felt foreign, alien, everything this kiss with Bill is _not._ It is easy for Stanley, almost too easy for him to move further into Bill’s space, drawing his hand up his shoulder to curl his hand around Bill’s neck, and Bill leans into the other boy’s caress, chasing the feeling subconsciously as the pair are almost completely lost to each other.

Bill’s thoughts are running rampid, his inside buzzing as he tries to get a hold on whatever the _fuck_ he’s feeling. A whirlwind of emotions ebb and flow in his heart like an uneasy tide before he ultimately latches onto one of them, the only one he can recognize enough to name: confusion. Bill knows he likes Beverly, knows he has liked her for some time now, but he cannot necessarily say he _doesn’t_ like kissing Stanley. So what the _fuck_ is he supposed to make of that? He isn’t sure. All he is sure of is that he thinks he wouldn’t mind so much if they stayed like this for a little while longer until he figures it out. He presses closer to Stanley and the other boy gasps against his lips, the noise quiet in nature but still sounding like a flare-gun going off in the otherwise silent basement.

“Oh, _shit._ ” Mike’s voice is what pulls them out of it, and Stanley’s heart thumps against his ribs when his eyes fly open and he sees the sudden rush of color to Bill’s cheeks as they separate. “You two need a room?” he grins, and then the spell is broken and they all begin to chuckle. “C’mon, Big Bill - it’s your turn.”

Bill goes to take the bottle from Stanley, a slight quiver in his hand, and he ends up dropping it.

“Damn, Denbrough, Stan wrecked you that bad, huh? Think you can still walk?” Richie teases.

“Ha-ha…” Bill says mockingly, and he runs a hand through his hair before retrieving the bottle and spinning it with a snap of his wrist.

It lands on Richie, who gasps. “Is this the moment?” he whispers dramatically, adopting his 1940’s starlet Voice, his hands fluttering about his chest. “God, I’ve always imagined this time would come but - _like this_? Oh, I suppose it’ll have to do. Stanley, are his lips as soft as they look?”

“Why don’t you g-get over here and see for yourself, T-Tozier?” Bill says cheekily.

“William Denbrough, you brazen hussy!” Richie squeals, and he all but leaps into Bill’s lap, throwing his arms around his neck to kiss him messily. It’s fingers in hair and grappling at shirts and both of them are laughing through it all until their lips fall away from each other’s, unable to stay together as their smiles have widened too far across their faces. “Not bad, Billy Boy,” Richie decrees as casually as if he were commenting on the boy’s curveball. “You’re almost as good as I remember.”

“Get the fuck out of my lap, you asshole,” Bill laughs, pushing Richie away from him.

“Don’t miss me too much, now…” Richie says, taking the bottle into his own hands as he crawled back to his spot beside Eddie. “You’re awfully quiet, aren’t ya, Eds?” he comments, and Eddie responds with a shrug, his eyes trained on his hands.

If any one of them was to be unsettled by the thought of a game like spin the bottle, it was bound to be Eddie - sweet, paranoid Eddie who at the end of the day still has his mother’s voice in the back of his mind. _Kissing is dirty, Eddie Kaspbrak - don’t you dare let me find out you’ve kissed any nasty little girls. You just wait until you’re married, sweetie._ Eddie’s stomach twists when he thinks about his mother finding out that he doesn’t want to kiss _girls_ at all --

The boy quite literally rattles in place in an attempt to shake that thought from his mind. It is not an uncommon thought for him. In fact, it’s been popping up more and more in recent months, albeit not at such vastly inconvenient moments like this one. It is simply too much for him to entertain, the idea that he likes boys as he watches one who crosses his mind quite often in particular wind up and release a bottle fastened with mistletoe that spins around at the center of them all like a game of Russian roulette. It comes to rest with the mistletoe pointing directly at Eddie’s folded legs - a smoking gun. He lets out a shuddering breath and just closes his eyes, waiting to feel Richie’s lips on his, all the while laying brick after brick throughout his mind and around his heart in an ill-fated attempt to make it mean nothing. He knows it won’t work as surely as he knows that kiss between Bill and Stanley meant everything to the latter, even if neither of them knew it yet. He sits there quietly, lips slightly pursed, but when nothing comes, he opens one of his eyes to find Richie peering at him softly.

“While I’d _love_ to just plant one on ya, Spaghetti Man, you don’t really think I’d kiss you without your permission, do you?” And Eddie’s heart swells. _Oh._ “So how ‘bout it, Eds? Let's give these kids a real show, huh?” He’s wiggling his eyebrows and has one of his Voices on, but he’s looking at Eddie with a fondness that shines right through the cracks in the Trashmouth mask.

“If you're going to kiss me, you have to wash your mouth out first,” Eddie insists. He’s the only one who is sober, opting to be the designated driver for the evening, but even if he had been half-dead on the floor, he wouldn't have allowed Richie Tozier - or _anyone,_ for that matter - near him without being clean.

“Only the best for you, Eds,” Richie replies without even a hint of hesitation, and his hands immediately drop to the fanny pack around Eddie’s waist. Eddie sucks in a sharp breath as he watches Richie rifle inside the bag for the miniature container of mouthwash he knows to always be in there. The rest of the group is watching this happen with bated breath. Bill and Beverly share a glance with each other before silently turning to each member of the group, and it's very obvious they're all wondering the same thing: _is this The Moment?_ They all turn as Richie finally locates the mouthwash, and they watch as he takes a generous swig, sloshes the liquid around in his mouth, and then spits it into the soil of one of the many potted plants in the Uris basement.

“You’re fucking disgusting,” Stanley sighs, and Richie blows him a kiss before dramatically cracking his neck and wiggling his shoulders as if he were a marathoner gearing up for a big race.

“Ready, Eds?” he asks again. Even drunk, he will not act without an okay from the other boy. He remembers from their game of Never Have I Ever that Eddie has never kissed anyone before. He’d looked so ashamed about it and had tried to cover it up, so Richie knows it couldn’t have been a lie, but what he doesn’t understand is why Eddie was ashamed in the first place. They’re young, and it’s not as if Richie’s first kiss had been this romantic sweeping gesture. It had been a tender moment between him and Bill when they were 13. They didn’t know if they were going to ‘do it right’ and wanted to be able to mess up on someone who would assuredly never judge them for it. But Richie knows Eddie and he knows this is a boy who takes everything seriously, so he wants to be able to do this the right way. He refuses to mess up Eddie Kaspbrak’s first kiss.

Eddie nods wordlessly at Richie, nailed to the floor of Stanley’s basement with a fear that makes him afraid of himself, makes him afraid of what he might say if he were foolish enough to respond out loud. He’s not afraid of Richie, no, he’s never once been afraid of Richie. He’s just terrified of himself and what happens if he _likes_ it. Who that makes him. _What_ that makes him. Richie scoots closer to Eddie and very delicately curves his hand around the nape of the smaller boy’s neck; the gesture is so cautious and deliberate that it almost looks choreographed, like Richie has thought about it before. That idea sits heavy in Eddie’s chest, rests delicately in his heart. Eddie is still holding his breath and staring into Richie’s eyes, magnified by his coke-bottle glasses, and he watches as those eyes land on every inch of his face, from his own eyes to the tip of his nose until finally finding his lips.

Eddie feels Richie’s fingers in the hair at the back of his neck and he stifles a contented hum, pushing it far down into his belly and holding it there as Richie closes the distance between them at last, moulding his lips to Eddie’s. Eddie leans into the kiss almost innately, the breath he had been holding in leaving him in a sigh muffled against Richie’s lips. Eddie has never been kissed before, so it isn’t like he has anything to compare this to, but he isn’t stupid - Richie is a _good_ kisser, and Eddie might have never pulled away if it weren’t for someone clearing their throat very loudly, the harsh sound slicing like an axe through the daze of bliss the two boys had gotten lost in and forcing them to jump apart.

“You know, if you two wanted to be alone, all you had to do was ask,” Mike grins, and it’s Richie’s turn to flip him off with a laugh, but there’s a robotic nature to his movements now, like he’s on autopilot, like Trashmouth has obtained complete control because Trashmouth can process what just happened without getting hurt in a way that Richie cannot. He steals a glance over at Eddie, whose eyes are once again trained to the floor; the apples of his cheeks are flushed a rougey pink, not unlike how they were when he’d first entered from being outside in the cold. He feels like he has to say something. Anything.

“My-My mom always told me not to kiss anyone ‘til I was married,” Eddie stammers. Richie bows.

“Well, if Mrs. K insists, I accept the proposal.” Eddie shakes his head. He seems to be on autopilot, too, and he reaches for the bottle.

“Hey, maybe we should call it quits now?” Beverly suggests, seeing the look on Eddie’s face, but Eddie shakes his head with a grin.

“Oh, no, I haven’t gotten a turn yet,” he says, and he aims his smile at each of his friends. “Or do none of you want the pleasure of a kiss from me?”

“Yeah,” Richie chimes in his Kenickie Voice as Eddie spins the bottle, “a kiss from Eddie Kaspbrak is like a Hallmark card -- ”

The bottle stops directly in front of Richie.

“This game is rigged,” Ben declares, pointing an accusatory finger at Richie, who holds his hands up.

“It’s nothing of the sort!” he squeaks, and for the first time that any of them can recall, Richie actually sounds nervous. He has not forgotten the rules he’d set himself at the beginning of the game. _Spice it up._

“T-Tozier, you would _absolutely_ f-f-find a way to rig this so Eds would have to kiss your ugly m-mug twice in a row.” Bill says, shaking his head in mock disgust.

The other boys laugh. Beverly can only look at Eddie as he sighs, but what she cannot see is his silent resolve to turn his brain completely off as he decides to play along. _It’s a game,_ he chastises himself for even entertaining any other explanation, and that is the only way he’ll survive what he is about to do.

He pushes himself onto his knees and climbs directly into Richie’s lap without warning and all remnants of laughter that hung in the air around them die in an instant. Eddie wraps his arms around Richie’s neck and goes in for the kill before he can even begin to analyze the way Richie’s mouth drops open and his eyes grow noticeably darker. Richie does not even try to stifle the moan he feels building in his chest; instead he just grabs a hold of Eddie’s hips and kisses him back, feeling his head spin when their tongues meet. Richie shakes when Eddie’s fingers grate through his hair, tangling in his curls. His mind is reeling. _Where did Eddie learn to kiss like this?_ he thinks, though he is far from complaining when Eddie bites down on his lower lip. But as quickly as it began, Eddie is already pulling back and rolling off of Richie’s lap to retake his place beside him, and he wipes at his mouth with the hem of his shirt, appearing entirely unphased as Richie gulps for air like a fish out of water.

“Your turn to spin,” he says in a voice that is much too composed for what just transpired. Richie looks like he’s struggling to breathe as he sits there panting, chest heaving as he stares thunderstruck at the boy beside him. Eddie smirks. “Need my inhaler, Tozier?” Richie shakes his head.

“Nah, I can think of better ways to get your spit in my mouth, but thanks for the offer, Eds.” Ben and Mike both snort loudly and Eddie rolls his eyes as he offers the bottle to him. Richie takes it, looking at it warily for the first time that night. Richie turns to face the rest of the group and they’re all sitting in silence, Beverly with her jaw nearly on the floor.

None of them say a word until Richie feels a Voice festering in his throat, this time the rousing bellow of an auctioneer, and he lets it loose in the hopes that it will diffuse some of the tension. “Alright, everybody, step up! Step up! Who’s next?” He spins the bottle like a contestant on a game show might spin a prize wheel, and it lands on Bill again. Richie is struck immediately, both by relief that it did not land on Eddie again and distinct and palpable disappointment. “C’mon down, Billy Boy, you’re the lucky winner. Step right up and claim your prize!” Bill crawls over to Richie and Richie grabs the other boy by his shirt collar, kissing him hard and sloppy. Richie is trying to get out all the pent-up emotion he feels about kissing Eddie, how incredible it felt, how badly he wants to do it again and again until they’re grey and old. Bill lets him. Bill would do anything for Richie Tozier, including let him kiss him for all he’s worth, even though he knows he isn’t the one Richie really wants to be kissing.

Eddie and Stanley both look away.

Bill breaks the kiss with a laugh. “Y-You’re out for the next few rounds, T-Tozier - we gotta give the r-r-rest of these kids some love…” he takes the bottle into his hands and spins it. It lands on Beverly and Bill feels his face grow hot. “Bev -- ?” he asks, but she is already at his side.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Denbrough,” she teases, a smirk on her freckled face, but her hands are balled into shaking fists in her lap that she’s hoping the others are too zonked to notice. Bill raises his hand to cup her cheek and she leans into his touch, all tension in her shoulders seeming to fall away, and he kisses her softly, nothing more than a brush of the lips, but it has her heart doing backflips in her chest.

Both Mike and Bill have been so gentle with her in her life, and Beverly can honestly say that she's not thinking about the life she purposefully destroyed when she was 13. It's been two years since her father's death, and she is trying as hard as she can to continue on with life like she thinks a 15 year old should, so she doesn't want to think about him right now. Right now, she wants to think about Bill Denbrough. So she does. She thinks about his thin hair falling over her fingers like water at the quarry; she thinks about the arch of his eyebrow which she has never seen be directly mocking or cruel underneath her thumb; she thinks about his mouth, always a soft and gentle thing, even while they kiss. This kiss does not stutter and stop the way Bill's mouth often does - she finds that the longer he falls into her, he only gets more certain about his movements, more tender and sweet in a way that Beverly never once thought she'd ever find or even deserve.

Bill’s mind begins to cloud. This kiss is different - it isn’t messy and playful like his kiss with Richie or heavy with unspoken words like his kiss with Stanley. It’s comfortable, airy. It’s _nice._ It’s an easy kiss to fall into, he thinks. And he does, trusting that Beverly’s arms are there to hold him up. They pull apart at the same time, mutually agreeing the kiss is over, and Beverly smiles at Bill and he, for all his nerves at the moment, smiles back, completely sure.

“ _Aww_ ,” Richie coos. “How sweet!” He uses a Voice, but Bill has to agree with the sentiment.

Beverly pulls out of Bill’s space and winds up the bottle. It lands on Eddie and he feels himself immediately begin to panic. _Oh, no_ , he thinks. _What if she thinks I wanted to kiss her like Bill did?_ But she smiles at him and it’s the same smile she gives him at any other time, and Eddie’s nerves dissipate.

“C’mere, big shot,” Beverly laughs once she’s borrowed the mouthwash that Richie was still holding, and Eddie giggles back as he crawls over to her. Beverly is almost a scholar in the mind of Eddie Kaspbrak, and when she finds no malice or false anger in his eyes, she knows this kiss will be just as sweet as the others. She looks around briefly and all of their friends are smiling at them - it's only then that she realizes that none of these boys will ever hurt her. Of this, she is unspeakably, unshakably sure. They share a sweet, chaste, gentle kiss, and Eddie thinks it isn’t like kissing family, like kissing his mother’s cheek. It isn’t like having a sister, although that’s always how he’s labeled Beverly in his head, and it’s not disgusting. But it’s certainly not the heady, daring moment that kissing Richie was. It’s something new altogether, like they’re creating a new title for a relationship that has never been thought about before. It’s like kissing your best friend. To Eddie, it’s lovely. It’s perfect. They break apart and Eddie smiles at her softly, like moonlight. She smiles back and Eddie has never been more certain of anything in his life in that moment: he’s gay.

 _Oh_ , he thinks as he settles back in his seat. It’s not a big, terrifying moment like he thought it would be when he finally accepted it, finally let himself put the label on how he feels. He looks at boys, at Richie, and he sees the sun. Eddie himself feels like the moon, needing to bask in their light to glow on his own. Touching Richie was like touching the face of a scalding sun; he didn’t miss the cool light of his own world. It was like colliding with pure heat, it was like burning alive, and he never wanted to come back from that. And girls, Beverly, they’re stars: distant, far away, searing things that he does not understand. He finally realizes, sitting in this room, looking at the bottle he needs to spin again, that he does not need to understand them to love them, but he also does not need to _like_ them to love them. Eddie is allowed to feel however he needs to - at least in his own head. Sharing this realization with his mother? That he doesn’t want to kiss sweet, clean, pretty girls, but the dirt and power and pure energy of _Richie Tozier?_ That’s an entirely different story, one that he does not want or need to think about at a party with all of his friends while he’s supposed to be kissing someone else.

“My hair is turning grey, Kaspbrak!” Ben pleads, urging Eddie to take his turn as Beverly returns to her place beside Mike. Eddie runs a hand through his hair before taking the bottle into his hands again, and he thinks if he lands on Richie again, he might very well faint.

But he doesn’t. No, this time, he lands on Bill, and he feels an overwhelming sense of calm wash over him. Bill is his oldest friend, the first friend he ever made that his mother didn’t try to weed out of his life. There is nothing about Bill Denbrough that Eddie’s mother has been able to denounce; the boy is a fucking saint and if Eddie had his pick of which one of his crazy, drunk best friends he’d have no qualms with kissing, Bill would come in hot in second place. The boy in question is already reaching out to catch the bottle of mouthwash that Beverly throws in his direction, and Eddie feels a fond smile stretch across his face.

“Thanks, Bill,” Eddie says quietly as Bill washes out his mouth, spitting it into his empty styrofoam cup once he’s done.

“No worries, buddy. Now c’mon, l-l-let’s have one of Eddie Kaspbrak’s legendary smooches.”

Eddie lets out a bark of a laugh when Bill just closes his eyes and puckers his lips, and the smaller boy feels totally at peace when he leans over and presses his lips to Bill’s as easily as if he were giving him a hug. It’s friendly, and there’s nothing romantic or strained about it, and Eddie is grateful that he’s kissed another boy, because where Richie is the sun and Beverly the stars, Bill is more like a comet, just a flash of brilliant light across the vastness that Eddie has yet to explore within himself. Bill is there and then he’s gone, and when they pull apart, both boys bask in the others’ light, sharing a smile.

Bill pinches Eddie’s cheek gently where he’s cupping it when they separate and Eddie swats his hand away with a laugh as Bill picks up the bottle again. He doesn’t notice, but Stanley goes rigid beside him, his entire body tensing up, and he closes his eyes as Bill spins the bottle, hoping, praying that it doesn’t land on --

“Fuck me!” Stanley shouts when his eyes fly open to find the neck of the bottle pointing at him like the blade of a sword.

“Fret not, dear boy - with the way this game works, you’re nearly half-way there,” Richie grins cheekily.

 _“Beep beep, Richie,”_ Eddie hisses for a second time that night. He can see the look of fear in the other boy’s eyes, plain as the nose on his face, and he wishes he could take Stanley aside and assure him that it’s alright. Eddie isn’t totally sure if Stanley likes Bill that way, and somewhere deep in his gut, he knows he shouldn’t assume, but only an idiot could have watched the way Stanley’s face had fallen as Bill and Beverly kissed and think nothing of it.

Bill turns to face him. “W-We’re starting to get g-good at this, huh, Stanley?” he says, and for the first time in his life, he’s glad for his stutter, because he doesn’t come off as behaving any differently despite the twisting of nerves deep in his belly.

“I wanna get this over with, Denbrough,” Stanley deadpans in the hopes that it isn’t clear on his face how much of a goddamn lie that is. “So just shut up and kiss me.”

Bill’s heart drops in his chest, and rather than explain to himself why it shatters at the bottom, he straddles Stanley and licks into his mouth, all dirt and grit and nothing like the sweet kisses he shared with Beverly and Eddie earlier could have ever made his heart pound like this. Stanley lets out a quiet moan that he couldn't have kept in if he tried when Bill shifts in his lap, and if Richie didn't decide to bellow, _"Shit, anybody wanna hose these two off?"_ right then, Stanley isn't entirely sure they would've broken apart.

Bill is the one who cuts it off, dragging his lips across Stanley’s cheek to look at Richie with an eyebrow raised, and Stanley is glad he does because he doesn’t see the way Stanley’s mouth moves to follow his after they’re separated. “You’re the one who b-brought out the bottle, Tozier…” he snaps, and he is still in Stanley’s lap, still with his hands curled around the collar of the boy’s shirt.

Stanley clears his throat loudly and Bill clambers off of him clumsily, his face flushed, to sit once more beside him, his eyes darting to look anywhere but back at him. Taking the bottle in his hands and praying as hard as he can, Stanley releases it and watches it whirl around until it finally lands on Eddie. Both boys seem to breathe a sigh of relief. Bill passes the mouthwash to Stanley, still with a violent red coloring his cheeks, and Stanley takes it without a word.

“Ready?” he asks once he’s washed up, and Eddie nods, letting his eyes close as Stanley leans toward him and fits their lips together. The kiss isn’t a long one - it isn’t hot and messy like his kiss with Richie or chaste and delicate like his kiss with Beverly or even friendly and easy like his kiss with Bill. Stanley is cautious, and after this whirlwind night that Eddie is still trying to get somewhat of a grip on, it is exactly what he needs. The two boys separate, a smile coming to both of their faces, and Eddie hopes that Stanley will trust him enough to talk to him about how he feels about Bill, because Eddie already knows that he can trust Stanley with this part of him.

“Geez, Eds, you’re just chuggin’ along, huh?” Richie teases, and Eddie lets out an unsteady breath as he shakes his head, puts on a smile, and spins.

_Of course._

“Okay, you’ve _both_ rigged it,” Ben laughs, throwing his hands up.

Eddie shakes his head, almost amused, the ghost of a smile on his face. After these last three kisses, he realizes it isn’t as dirty as his mother had warned. Mouths may have all that bacteria, but they must’ve killed _some_ of it with the mouthwash, right? His mother had always taught him to be a good boy and not kiss anyone until marriage, and to _never_ kiss a boy. They’re _dirty._ _He’d_ be dirty if he kissed a boy. He didn’t think he’d ever even get the chance to kiss anyone when she told him this, not until these six blazing, beautiful souls sitting around him came into his life and changed him irreversibly. They’ve opened up an entirely new world for him.

Eddie’s kissed three boys now. God, his mother would have a conniption fit. She’d never let him see them all again, he realizes sadly. He got to kiss Beverly, kiss his best friend, and realize, yeah, girls are nice. They’re sweet, they’re kind, they’re lovely. They’re just not for him. He got to have his _first kiss_ with _Richie Tozier_ like he refused to let himself dream about for years and then exclusively dreamt about for years. He realizes through the course of this game how absolutely undeniable Richie is, how undeniable his feelings for him are. And he got to do it surrounded by all of their friends, holding them up, five solid, unwavering posts, not pushing them towards the light, but allowing them to get there on their own. He got to watch his friends goof around and enjoy physical affection without the major consequences he’d always associated with it.

His smile grows and then it disappears entirely when he looks at Richie. Richie is sitting, staring at him, a look in his eyes that Eddie has never seen in anyone before, let alone directed at him. He looks wild, crazed, a hunger within him that he cannot sate, starving for something that only Eddie can give him. It’s crazy for Eddie to witness - he almost doesn’t believe it’s even happening. But it makes his whole body heat up and a blush come to his cheeks. He doesn’t look away.

There’s suddenly a question in Richie’s eyes. _Do you want this, too?_ They need to do better than the kisses they had before? Well, damn, Eddie can do that. He definitely wants to. His eyes darken at the thought of kissing Richie again, being _allowed_ to kiss Richie again. He never thought he’d see this day, and he might never get the chance to do this again, so, goddamn, he wants to do it right. Richie, at the same moment, sees all trace of trepidation and nerves disappear from Eddie’s face, and they collide, neither of them able to take the tension, the fact that they _can_ and are _not_.

It’s teeth-clacking, shirt-grabbing, skin-searing, life-changing. No one dares say a word, all making eye contact and the same question in all of their eyes: _this must be The Moment, right?_ Eddie sighs and starts to fall backwards, and Richie as naturally as breathing, like they've done this hundreds of times before rather than only two, eases him to the floor and climbs on top of him, licking into his mouth. Eddie had discarded his sweater ages ago, the heat of Stanley’s basement on high, and Richie’s hand cups Eddie’s ribcage over his thin t-shirt, his fingers fitting in between the spaces of his ribs. The movement is so intimate and calming that Eddie feels his heart rate begin to slow, but then Richie’s thumb begins caressing his skin through his shirt, and it picks right back up again. It’s electric, a mighty jolt through Eddie’s body. Eddie gasps into Richie’s mouth and Richie rips their lips apart, kissing his neck, running his tongue over the thin skin there, sucking on his pulse point. Eddie moans, his whole body reacting. Richie’s mouth travels feverishly, down, down --

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

Richie and Eddie spring apart like they’ve been shocked as Eddie’s wristwatch begins beeping, signifying he has to take his medication. **10:30 P.M.** They stare at each other, breathing heavily.

“I -- Pills,” Eddie pants.

“Yeah,” Richie says, unmoving from his place on top of Eddie. “Do you wanna take them?”

“Yeah,” Eddie repeats faintly, feeling a bit dizzy from the closeness, the fact that they just did what he’s been dreaming of for years. “I should.” Instead, Eddie surges up and kisses Richie one more time, searing their bodies together from head to toe, and then they pull away as the watch beeps on.

Richie smiles down at him, gives Eddie’s forehead a long, soft kiss, and then rolls off of him. He sits back up as Eddie crawls out of the circle and over to his backpack to take his pills before he realizes he doesn't take them anymore, especially not after what happened at Thanksgiving, what he heard. He stares at his open backpack for a long, drawn out moment before slowly putting it down and zipping it back up. Everyone else’s eyes bore into Richie, staring at him open-mouthed. He gives them all a challenging eyebrow raise.

“Yes? Anything to say, guys?” They all shake their heads. Eddie sits back down, looking utterly debauched, a bruise already forming on his throat, and Mike is the one to let out a laugh. They all follow suit, in absolutely stitches, unable to sit up straight. Beverly’s clutching her stomach as Mike’s whole body falls to the ground.

“Okay, guys, g-game over,” Bill chuckles, and that’s that. Together, they put this night in a bottle, all seal it with a kiss to the cork, and set it out to the seas of their drifting consciousness. Bill knows none of them will forget this night for the rest of their lives even with the alcohol they’ve consumed. He’s certain of it.

They all get up to get ready for bed, Richie putting his sleeping bag on the ground. He looks at what he made while trying to keep quiet during the game: a ring fashioned out of gum wrappers that were in his pocket next to his pack of cigarettes (the gum because Eddie hates the smell of tobacco). Beverly had taught him the wrapper folding trick a few years prior in an attempt to thwart his hyperactivity. Eddie puts his sleeping bag down right next to Richie’s, even though there’s plenty of space in the room to stretch out, and him doing that gives Richie the courage to pull probably the most romantic move he can think to.

Richie gets down on one knee and presents the ring to Eddie, whose eyes widen. “My love, your mother has said we should be wed, but I have waited for this day my entire life. Marry me, dewdrop?” He says it in a proper Englishman Voice, and he slips the ring on Eddie’s left ring finger with shaking hands.

Eddie looks at it for a long moment, the way the metal paper shines in the light like real diamonds. _Do I even want to know if this feeling goes both ways?_ he thinks. He doesn’t know if this is a game or not. He isn’t sure if anything they’ve done tonight has been just a game. _You know what? Fuck it._

“Oh, my darling, kiss me tender, kiss me sweet! I cannot wait to be yours!” Eddie cries, wishing he could blame the silly accent inspired by Richie’s he adopts on drunkenness, but Eddie hasn’t had a sip of alcohol all night and because of that he can feel through every inch of himself how real he wants this to be. His hands flutter around Richie’s face and Richie thinks wildly, _he’s never gone along with a bit before_. That realization makes him amble up, a wide, stretching smile that goes on for miles across his face. He takes Eddie’s face in his hands, but right before their lips meet, he pauses, waiting for Eddie to bridge the gap.

 _He’s asking again_ , Eddie thinks, mind drowning in thought, all of the words running through his head being shouted into a megaphone. He could count all of Richie’s freckles from how close together they are; it’s an overwhelming thought. He shakes his head, smiles and threads his fingers in Richie’s hair, pulling his head down to meet Eddie’s lips.

They kiss for the fourth time that night. The group cheers in the background, all still unsure if this is The Moment or not. It certainly looks like it because this kiss is soft and slow and sweet and silk on wood, Eddie’s lips catching on Richie’s like fabric on a rough surface. This kiss is not desperate or wild, and it leaves the rest of them behind. Eddie thinks he hears the familiar click and release of Mike’s polaroid camera before Richie breaks the kiss and breathes evenly, the air fanning out over Eddie’s face. He kisses his cheek, the tip of his nose, his forehead. He squeezes Eddie’s wrapper-adorned hand before giving Eddie a small, certain smile. Eddie smiles back. He hangs his arm over Eddie’s shoulder and turns to the group.

“Alright, alright, show’s over,” he says in a New York announcer Voice, and they all laugh and turn to get ready. They all say their goodnights and Eddie and Richie tuck themselves into their sleeping bags, facing one another. Eddie immediately closes his eyes.

After a while, after the lights go off and it’s gone quiet, he counts to 100 before he opens his eyes again. He finds Richie looking at him, eyes scanning over his face, like he’s trying to memorize it. They share a small smile and Eddie holds out his left hand. Richie stretches out his own, their fingers touching and then slowly tanging together, the braid of them creating the feeling of an unbreakable, unbeatable bond in both of them. They keep their eyes locked for a while until both of their eyes begin to droop and they fall asleep, hands cradled in each other’s all night long.

Mike wakes up first, used to a farm schedule and needing to get up at dawn. He gets out of his sleeping bag quietly to use the bathroom and passes Eddie and Richie, seeing that their hands are tangled and they’re both smiling in their sleep. Mike grins at them and goes to grab his polaroid camera from where he ditched it last night after taking a photo of Eddie and Richie kissing with Eddie’s ring shining in the light. He grabs that photo and walks back to them, taking another picture, hoping neither of them will wake up. Eddie sniffs, shuffles in his sleep and pulling Richie’s hand closer to him before he stops moving altogether. Richie, however, does not move at all.

 _Sleeps like the dead_ , Mike thinks fondly, rolling his eyes. He waves the photograph in his hand as silently as he can, waiting for it to develop, and once it does, he slips the photo of them that he’d just taken into Eddie’s backpack and the photo from last night into the back pocket of Richie’s jeans, piled at the bottom of his sleeping bag.

 _This_ , Mike thinks, smiling. _This is what cameras were made for. For people like these._ He looks around at the rest of them and feels more at peace than he has since his parents were alive. Maybe he’d found more parts to his family. Not a new one, no, he was never going to replace the hole left in his heart from his parents’ deaths. But maybe his parents are looking down at him and are proud of the life he’s made for himself, at their family he's lovingly expanded. He looks up and smiles.

“I hope you like them, guys,” he whispers, just a breath in the air, eyes closed in prayer. He opens them and nods decisively at his sleeping friends. “I know I do.”

 

Later that morning, when everyone has woken up and Richie and Eddie have untangled themselves from one another, embarrassed and blushing but smiling all the same, they decide it’s finally time to exchange Secret Santa gifts.

“How did everyb-b-body sleep?” Bill asks sweetly as he helps Beverly pour the mugs of hot cocoa. Mike accepts his gleefully and takes a generous sip before winking in Ben’s direction.

“Oh, I slept like a _baby,_ Denbrough,” he assures. “Dreamt about you all night, Haystack!” Mike puckers his lips at his friend, who shoves him playfully, and they both chuckle.

“You stop that, Hanlon! You’re makin’ me blush,” Ben teases and Mike ruffles his hair fondly. “I slept alright, but I think Tozier and Kaspbrak take the cake…”

“Um, we _absolutely_ do, Benjamin!” Richie bellows from where he’s come up beside him to retrieve his own mug of cocoa from Beverly. “Eds and I take the cake, the brownies, the whole _fucking_ bakery, thank you very much!”

“God, only you could beat a fucking saying into the ground like that,” Stanley grumbles, still rubbing at his eyes as he reaches for the mug in Bill’s extended hand blindly. Their fingers brush but neither one of them has the energy to think too long about the way their hearts leap at the contact. Stanley takes another mug for Eddie and passes it over before heading to take a seat on the ground, crossing his legs beneath him, and everyone else follows his example until they’re all back in a circle, not unlike how they were the previous night.

Eddie’s heart jumps into his throat when he catches sight of the empty wine bottle, the mistletoe still wrapped around its neck where it sits on the fireplace. He is painfully envious of Mike and Ben in that moment, in their ability to make light of what had transpired between them the night before, but Eddie knows deep down that the kiss those two boys had shared and the _kisses_ he and Richie shared were two different things. That the kisses Bill and Stanley shared were different as well. That maybe everything will be different now.

Stanley opens his gift first, upon Richie’s insistence that it’s _his house, after all_ . He gets a dreidel, a travel-size Torah, three sacks full of gelt chocolate coins, and a note in a messy scrawl that everyone recognizes immediately to be Richie’s. _Stan: Chanukah is an important holiday and mustn’t be overlooked in favor for “Christmas." Keep fighting the man, Stan the Man. Hugs and kisses, Your Secret Admirer._ Stan rolls his eyes and looks over at Richie.

Richie hums nonchalantly. “There seems to be another parchment in there, good chap,” he says in a proper English accent. Stanley looks down and sees another wrapped item in the bag and opens it to find the newest edition of the bird watching guide and a pair of expensive binoculars. He smiles down at it for a while, realizing that Richie must’ve remembered Stanley telling him that his binoculars were utter shit, before aiming his grin directly at Richie.

“Thank you, whoever bought this. It’ll definitely get put to good use,” Stanley says, looking directly at Richie with an uncharacteristically soft smile. Richie winks at him and they move onto the next person in the circle, Bill. Stanley hands the bag with Bill’s name scribbled on the tag in an attempt to look illegible to him, and the other boy takes it with a childlike grin. The box is heavier than he expects, and his brow furrows as he peers at it questioningly.

“You know, Billy Boy, you kinda need to _open it_ to see what’s inside,” Richie reminds carefully. Bill flips him off, eyes still trained on the gift in his lap, and he digs into it finally, ripping off the tissue paper and opening to the box to see what’s inside. He feels his heart catch in his throat.

“ _Wh-Who_ did this?” he whispers as he reaches into the bag, and he pulls out a typewriter that looks like it’s been through the mill, but in a charming way, in a way that feels purposeful; it’s small and deep brown in color, its keyboard rounded instead of the typical rectangular shape. Bill looks up at all of his friends with tears in his eyes, studying each of their faces; only Ben looks away, incriminating himself. _“Hanscom,”_ Bill breathes, and all of them smile at the now blushing boy.

“Now you have a place to write your stories down,” Ben shrugs as if it was nothing. “You don’t have to scribble ‘em on napkins anymore, or keep ‘em up in your head…”

“Thanks, buddy. I love it.” Bill’s grin is miles wide, and not one of them can help but notice how his voice doesn't waver once, his stutter momentarily subdued by an overwhelming affection for his friend. Ben is still blushing when Stanley passes him his gift, and in a desperate attempt to shift the focus from himself, he shoves his hand inside instantly and pulls out an envelope. He tears it open and drops the two rectangular bits of paper with a yelp after reading them.

 _“Who!”_ he yells, unable to hide his excitement, and Beverly raises her hand triumphantly.

“Only condition is you _have_ to bring me, Hanscom…” she says with a wink that knocks the wind even further out of Ben as he turns to look once more at the New Kids On the Block concert tickets he held in his hand.

 _“Deal,”_ he accepts without a moment’s delay, and she crawls across the circle to give him a hug.

“Merry Christmas, new kid,” she teases, ruffling his hair, and he smiles as he hugs her back.

“Merry Christmas, Beverly.”

“I love friendship,” Richie suddenly croons, wiping away an imaginary tear as he leans his head on Eddie’s shoulder, and Beverly aims a good-hearted kick at his shin, which he narrowly dodges as he turns to catch the gift bag Stanley tossed his way. Richie waits until Beverly has retaken her place in the circle before tearing into the gift bag like a madman, sending wrapping and tissue paper flying all about the basement, causing Stanley to chase it around with a garbage bag, grumbling.

Eddie looks away, unable to see the expression on Richie’s face when he sees his gift. He had been struggling with what to get Richie for months before coming up with the perfect idea. So, when he had been reminded of their tradition of doing Secret Santa, Eddie had a flash of gratefulness, followed shortly by a long stretch of anxiety. What if he didn’t get Richie? He and Beverly had already been hard at work on his present. He chose out of the cup at Beverly’s house back in November and the name written on the piece of paper was in Ben’s familiar scrawl. He felt his anxiety spike through the ceiling. He loves Ben, of course, but this present is for Richie and Richie alone. He couldn’t just give two people in the group gifts and no one else, that wouldn’t be fair. And then felt a tap on his knee. He looked over to where he felt Beverly tapping and she pressed her piece of paper into his hand. _Richie._ He gave her hand a grateful squeeze and then proceeded to stress out even further. He _did_ get Richie. _Now_ what?

So, he’s been… stressed. To put it lightly.

Eddie just needs this gift to be perfect, that’s all. He needs this gift to mean something to Richie, it needs to not just be something silly like a joke book that he could make a crack about and move on. Eddie wants this gift to render Richie incapable of making a joke out of it. He wants this gift to steal the breath from him like he does to Eddie on a daily basis.

Plus, he worked hard on it. Really hard. Maybe too hard.

“Hey, be careful there, Tozier! You never know what could be inside! Maybe it’s something breakable,” Beverly calls out.

“Okay, Bev, let’s pump the brakes, we all know not to get _Richie_ something _breakable_ ,” Stanley retorts, and everyone laughs, except Richie who gives a sarcastic _ha-ha_ before continuing to undo the wrapping Eddie did on the present more carefully.

And it does steal Richie’s breath away.

He can’t speak, can’t move as he sees what was given to him. No, _made_ for him. It’s a comic book, _The Tremendous Adventures of Trashmouth Tozier_ , and it’s a truly mind-bogglingly outstanding 17 pages of art. It chronicles the seven of them going through trials as they fight the embodiment of fear, which Bill in the comic names _It_. When Georgie is taken, however, it becomes personal, and they all fight to make it out of the sewers of Derry alive. They do, by the skin of their teeth, with their powers and strengths. Their super powers don’t work in the sewers, however, so they all need to work together using intellect, camaraderie and bravery to make it out with Georgie in tow. Whoever made it created Eddie to be Richie’s sidekick of sorts, which he thinks is apt. They go to each other for help constantly throughout the panels of the comic and it tells the story through Richie’s perspective. It’s beautiful. Richie is beyond touched, and very, very overwhelmed, unable to help the tears that escape down his cheeks that he keeps violently wiping away so they don’t fall and stain the paper.

He looks up, bleary-eyed, and scans the remaining people it could be: Bill, Stanley and Eddie. They all look equally shocked, but Eddie is shocked not at the book, but at whatever he sees in Richie’s face. Affection, surprise, gratitude, all passing in a whirlwind. Eddie gives him a shy smile and Richie puts the book down carefully before launching himself at him, wrapping him in a hug so tight, Eddie can’t move his arms.

“Gotta get my arms out to hug you back, Rich,” he grumbles, but there’s a smile in his voice and on his face that the rest of the Losers see. Richie lifts his elbows for Eddie to get his arms around him, but his hands never leave Eddie’s back. Richie nuzzles into Eddie’s hair and pulls back to kiss his cheek softly. He moves his lips to Eddie’s ear, and Eddie is sure Richie can hear his heart beating, loudly and so fast, he’s worried it’ll beat its way out of his own chest.

“Thank you, beautiful boy,” Richie whispers, and Eddie’s rib casing is not nearly big enough to hold all the love he has for Richie Tozier.

Eddie isn’t sure he has the ability to speak at the moment, voice caught in his throat, so he just nods as Richie pulls back and slowly slides his arms off of Eddie’s body.

“This is incredible,” Richie says, sitting back down and picking up the book once more. “Did you -- did you do this on your own?” Eddie shrugs, eyes flitting to Beverly who has a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

“Bev helped,” Eddie explains. “A bit. She drew outlines of everyone and I -- ”

“I’m in it, too?!”

“I wanna see it!”

Everyone begins clamoring for the comic book and Richie holds it to his chest protectively. “Be careful with it, okay? This is precious cargo, folks.”

Eddie blushes scarlet as it’s passed around, everyone oohing and ahhing at Beverly and Eddie’s beautiful work. Richie and Eddie look at one another at the same moment and share a private smile. Ben particularly likes his happy, kind character who can manipulate anyone’s negative emotions into a positive counterpart, Heartsome Hanscom. The characters are all how Eddie sees his friends: Dazzling Denbrough, Bev The Ball Of Fire, Mighty Mike, and Solar Stanley. Elemental Eddie was harder for him to come up with, and he thought several times to ask Beverly to come up with a name for him, but he settled on a character who could control the elements based on what emotion he’s feeling: anger and love are both fire, for example. It made sense for his personality, he figures.

Bill has diamonds embedded in his skin and can shine to blind his opponents. He also cannot burn. Beverly can turn into a literal ball of fire because of her skin like a matchbook, and barrel into people. Mike is a strongman, can lift just about anything. Stanley can control light and make the sun’s rays stronger in particular spots. Beverly, Bill and Stanley often work together throughout the comic. The hardest to come up with for Eddie though, by far, even harder than his own, was Richie. He eventually decided on a character who everyone believes; he cannot tell a lie because everyone thinks what he says is truth. Only the members of The Lucky Seven, their crime fighting crew, can see through the mask he wears, literally and metaphorically.

“Okay, okay,” Richie says, reaching his hand out to Ben. “Fork it over, Heartsome.” They both smile at each other, bright and happy, and Ben gives it back to him. Richie puts it back in the bag, wiping his face a bit with the edge of his sleeve. “Alright, show’s over, folks. Who’s next, eh?”

“Me! Me!” Beverly chimes, waving her hand in the air, and Richie passes her the gift-bag with her name scribbled on the tag. She makes a show of holding the present up to her ear and shaking it.

“While we’re young, Marsh!” Mike crows, and she sticks her tongue out at him before opening the bag and digging through the paper to retrieve what sits inside; what she pulls from the bottom of the bag seems harmless enough, but when she sees what it is, Beverly drops it into her lap as if it had electrocuted her, her hands flying to her mouth as tears gather in her eyes. She peers down at the sketchpad in her lap, breathless; it’s a beautiful, leather-bound and engraved with a monograph that, instead of featuring her initials, reads **_Bev_ ** in great, swirling letters. She flips the cover open wordlessly, indifferent to the way the boys around her are waiting with baited breath for her to speak, and she is unable to stop a steady flow of tears pouring from her eyes as she reads what is written on the first line of the first page.

 _You can start over here, too,_ she mouths, letting her fingers trace each letter individually, feeling the indent that the pen had made on the page. She bites her lip, blinking the tears out of her eyes so that they fall to dot her face like the freckles around her nose. There are only two people sitting around her who know that she had gotten rid of her sketch pads after her father’s death, who knew that it was her father who had taught her to draw in the first place, and when the horrors he’d put her through had finally reached a head and she was rid of him, she thought it would be best to do away with any and all things that reminded her of him. Drawing was one of those things, though it had nearly killed her to stop; she loved it, loved how it made her feel to drag the tip of a pencil across a blank canvas and add substance to emptiness, to create something where there once was nothing. It made her feel in control, but he had ruined that like he’d ruined so many things - like he’d tried to ruin her. She realized long ago that she wasn’t ruined, and her friends reminded her of that everyday, but she still felt like she couldn’t be her whole self without drawing, without that one thing she missed from before she was free of him, the one thing she wanted to have back.

Beverly lifts the sketchpad to cradle it to her chest, hugging it and propping her chin on it as she peers overtop of it at each of her friends, her watery gaze landing on each of them individually. She knows it wasn’t Stanley’s doing, nor was it Mike’s or Ben’s or Richie’s - none of them knew what had truly happened with her father, only that he had died and that because of that, Beverly’s aunt had moved to Derry to take care of her only niece. Eddie knows what had happened with Alvin Marsh, but Eddie had been Richie’s Secret Santa and therefore couldn’t be behind Beverly’s gift, so that left only one person, the only other person in the world who knew Beverly’s secret, who knew the ugly truth of what had happened to her, and he was looking at her then like he wasn’t quite sure if she was going to scream at him or hug him.

 _“William Jacob Denbrough,”_ she says wetly, her lip shaking, but her voice is strong, sure, and she clambers across the basement floor to throw her arms around Bill in a fierce hug, burying her face in the crook of his neck as he hugs her back, running his hand in a circle on her back instinctively. “Thank you,” she whispers only to him, and Bill kisses her hair.

“You’re w-welcome, Beverly…” Bill says, and she pulls back to look at him.

“I love it. Thank you,” she says again, and she places a lingering kiss on his cheek just by the corner of his mouth before turning in his embrace to rest her shoulder on his chest, leaning against him, and his arm curls around her; it’s effortless, the way they mould themselves to one another, and Beverly smiles at their hands when Bill twists their fingers together, drawing her closer to him. She doesn't know what they are now, what their label is, but she can honestly say this feels no different or scarier than any other physical contact she's made with people throughout the years. Beverly has a hard time with intimacy - in any form - and her friends never push her to talk about why or push her boundaries any further than she is willing to let them go. She never thought boys could be so  _good_ and she's grateful to know them. But Bill knows her past; Bill knows the  _why_ and a bit of the  _how._ But he is not unwilling to try with Beverly, and she is the luckiest person in this group to have found such honest and kind men. 

“‘Bout fuckin’ time,” Richie mutters, leering at the pair of them.

 _“Beep beep, Richie,”_ Eddie sighs, but he’s smiling at Beverly and Bill, too. If ever two people were to make sense together, Eddie thinks, it’s the two of them. “Mikey, it’s your turn to open your gift.” Mike’s face brightens and he rubs his hands together excitedly before taking the gift-bag from Eddie and resting it in his lap. He digs right in, plunging his hands inside the bag to pull out its contents, and when he does, he closes his eyes with a laugh, shaking his head slowly.

“Which one of y’all did this?” Mike asks, unable to keep the grin off his face as he looks at his present - five complete rolls of film for his beloved SLR, five complete rolls of very _expensive_ film. The camera had belonged to his mother, and it is one of the few things that had survived the horrific fire that claimed both of his parents’ lives, one of the only things he still has left from her. He loves it dearly, deeply, like it is a piece of her, and so he treasures each and every photo he takes, knowing how precious it was to her and how pricey the film for it is. He usually gets a new roll from his grandfather each year - but _never_ has he gotten so much at once. He peers around at all of his friends, trying to figure out who amongst them would have the means to buy such a lavish gift - only one of them. “Stan the Man,” he pegs, pointing at him. When his parents had passed away, some of the only people in town who had sent their condolences to the Hanlons were the Urises. They had been friendly for quite a bit, but tragedy is just as good at bringing people together as it is at tearing them apart. Robin Uris had brought her only son all the way out to the Hanlon farm to pay their respects, and by the end of the day, Mike was being invited to the next basement party, and the rest was history. It could only make sense that Stanley would buy him this film, knowing the significance of his camera, and when Mike sees Stanley nod, sees him blush, he knows his guess is correct. “Thank you, brother,” Mike says, placing his hand over his own heart, and Stanley mimics him, smiling at him from across the circle.

“Now you can take more pictures of me, Mikey,” Richie chimes, and he sprawls himself out across Mike’s lap when he rolls his eyes at him. “Oh, don’t try to hide it, sweetcheeks - everybody already knows I’m your muse.”

“Get out of my lap, you gremlin,” Mike shoves him back towards Eddie, but not before Richie can pop up and plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Last but not least!” Richie cries, bursting into a animated drum-roll as Stanley hands Eddie his gift-bag. “Don’t take too long, now, Eds - I’m startin’ to get hungry and I know Mrs. Uris makes some mean French toast -- ”

“Let him open his gift, Richie!” Beverly says, nudging him with her foot, and Richie falls silent, turning to watch as Eddie unearths a giant, leather-bound photo-album from beneath layers and layers of tissue paper.

“This is beautiful,” Eddie says, running his fingers along its spine. “Thanks, Mike,” he adds, and Mike chuckles. Of course Eddie wouldn’t even have to think about who this gift was from - this boy is more in-tune to his friends than anyone else in the whole world, it only makes sense he could pinpoint the giver of a gift in under ten seconds.

“You gotta open it, Kaspbrak,” Mike insists, and Eddie blinks. He never once considered the thought that the album would already contain photos. When he flips the book open, he gasps lightly at the first page, tears already welling up in his eyes. There’s one photo on the first page, one of the first photos of the seven of them ever taken at the sandlot. They’re all cramped together, sitting by the fence, Eddie in Beverly’s lap, her arms secured around his midsection, hugging him to her with their heads tilted together. Mike is crouching down in front of them, not having had enough time to squish in, arms splayed and a wide smile across his face. Bill and Ben are on opposite sides of the group, standing like twin pillars of endless strength; Bill has an arm hooked around Stanley, their heads tilted together similarly to Beverly and Eddie’s. Ben is trying to get Richie’s foot out of his face because Richie is laying across them all, head propped up in his hand, not unlike he was a moment ago with Mike. Everyone has signed the first page in their own handwriting, varying from sloppy like Ben’s to pristine like Bill’s. It says _The Losers’ Club_ in cursive on the top of the page.

Eddie looks up at Mike, tears falling freely now, and Mike smiles, gesturing for him to keep going. He flips through the rest of the book, and there’s photos of all of them in various groupings. All of them are incredibly well-shot and have the date and location under every photo in Mike’s neat uppercase. There’s a series of photos of Richie voguing that takes up an entire page. (“Mikey, how many times did you take this picture? Wasn’t once enough?” “Unfortunately, these were all separate occasions. I call the photo series _Idiot In Vogue_.” “You’d make millions off this mug,” Richie sniffs derisively.) There’s a photo of Richie sitting sideways on Bill’s lap, legs dangling off to the side and arms wrapped around his neck. His eyes are completely closed from how hard he’s smiling. Bill looks complacent, entirely fine with the situation, eyeing the camera with a fond look. There’s one of Beverly and Eddie, two stuck next to one another, where they’re in the diner, drinking milkshakes and sitting next to each other. The first has Beverly and Eddie laughing into each other’s shoulders, the second, Eddie has nearly fallen out of the booth and Beverly is laughing, eyebrow raised, giving the camera a shrug. There’s one of Stanley and Ben, wearing nearly identical outfits, down to the baseball caps on their heads, eating ice cream and laughing at one another. There’s one of a group of four of them on the couch in Stanley’s basement, in various states of hysteria over Richie telling a story about Eddie missing a step in the stairs at school and face-planting right at his feet. Eddie is pouting in this photo of course, and it makes the group laugh to see. There’s one with a parade of them all going around Bill’s house from New Year’s Eve last year with drums that Georgie brought out. Georgie is leading the train of friends; Richie is easily the most excited one, face lit up with glee behind Bill who is playing the kazoo. A photo of Richie fallen down onto the floor of Freese’s, laughing hysterically in front of a row of cereal boxes to the point where you can see tear tracks on his face. Pictures from their beach trip last summer, Richie splashing everyone in the ocean he can, Eddie jumping on Richie and dunking him in the water.

Most photos are in color, but there’s one photo that catches his eye that’s in black and white, taken on his SLR. It’s of Eddie and Richie. Eddie remembers the photo well, taken on that same New Year’s Eve. It’s a bit blurry, because the two of them were clearly in motion. Richie had hooked his arm through Eddie’s while eating part of the ice cream cake Bill’s mother had bought for them. Richie is looking down at Eddie, a mischievous smile on his face, and Eddie is looking back, fondly exasperated. Their heads are tipped together, so close that they’re nearly touching, and it steals the breath from Eddie just to look at, let alone remember.

Eddie doesn’t remember looking at Richie that fondly, or the softness in Richie’s eyes being that prominent. _Is it always that way with us?_ he wonders, hand hovering to turn the next page, hesitating. The caption is innocent, as all of them have been: _Richie and Eddie, Dec 31, 1990, Bill’s House_. Eddie lightly touches the writing; _Richie and Eddie._ Have their names always fit together like that, like puzzle pieces? Maybe Eddie… has always liked Richie?

No. No, that doesn’t make sense. Richie is like his annoying twin brother who’s always around and causing trouble and trying to bake him cookies when he gets sick and bringing them over to his house when his mother is out getting medication at the pharmacy. He’s his brother who always jumps directly into puddles, even when he’s not wearing rain boots, to give Eddie a lift over the mud so he doesn’t get dirty. He’s Eddie’s brother who kisses him in games of spin the bottle like it’s his last night on earth, like it’s his last kiss he’s ever going to have, and asks Eddie to marry him with gum wrappers. Fake marry. There’s no way in _hell_ that _Richie Tozier_ would ever want to be with _Eddie_. The idea is absolutely unfathomable.

Eddie, maybe on instinct, maybe by fate, looks up to see Richie looking at the same photo. Richie looks up at him as well. They make eye contact and Richie smiles softly. “Nice pics, Hanlon,” he says without taking his eyes off of Eddie.

Eddie wonders if there’s ever a universe where he doesn’t smile back at Richie Tozier when he smiles at him.

 

* * *

 

Being nervous is not a foreign concept for Bill Denbrough, but as he sits on a bench lacing up his ice-skates, eyes trained purposely on his hands as they weave the strings up and over one another, he thinks he might just burst with it. He feels somebody bump his shoulder with their gloved fist, and when he looks up, it’s to find Ben smiling at him, his eyes encouraging, and Bill smiles back timidly before turning to the woman standing off to the side of them whose eyes keep flickering from the door to the rink to the watch on her wrist and back.

“Th-Th-Thank you for driving us here, Mrs. Uris,” Bill says sweetly, and Robin Uris’s head whips around to offer the boy a kind smile that doesn’t match the unease in her eyes. “We r-really appreciate it.”

“Of course, William,” Stanley’s mother replies, placing a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. Her own son is off with Richie Tozier, the pair of them still waiting on line to get their skates. “The rest of your friends should be here soon, shouldn’t they?” she wonders, looking once more towards the door as if she could somehow will the remaining members of the group to walk through it. Robin Uris is nervous too, she realizes as she looks off to scan the crowd of ice-skaters for her son. She spots him easily enough, the yarmulke on the back of his head making him stand out amongst the people surrounding him, and she notes the way he’s slouching, clicking her tongue as she makes a mental note to remind him about his posture. Her son is growing like a weed before her eyes, shooting up past her so quickly she thinks his head might soon touch the clouds, and this would not worry her so much if she didn’t notice how differently he’s been acting. She hopes this outing to celebrate Bill’s birthday will cheer him up, knows how much Stanley adores him and the rest of their friends as well, and so she is incredibly impatient for them to arrive, convinced that all her boy needs is to be surrounded by them and he will be fine.

“Yes, ma’am,” Ben pipes up, “they left Beverly’s house around the same time as we did…” Robin Uris nods and looks at her watch one more time. She was supposed to be on the road again ten minutes ago to ensure that she’d arrive at home before her husband and get dinner started, but she did not want to leave Stanley and his friends until the others arrived, until she could pass them off to another adult for supervision.

Bill, always hyper-aware of the people surrounding him, can sense the woman’s discomfort though he is unsure of the reason. He tilts his head curiously, peering at her; with her honey brown curls and the perpetually pinched lines of her forehead, she bears a remarkable resemblance to her son, something that both boys make great note of once Stanley skates over to the them, skidding to a halt in a way that sends a stream of ice flying out from beneath his feet.

“Anybody else get here yet?” he asks. The other three shake their heads. “Just as well, I’m gonna need a few minutes to recoup from that car ride,” he shudders, and Bill chuckles, remembering the way Richie had practically been bouncing off the walls of Stanley’s mother’s car the entire way from Derry to Bangor, cracking the absolute worst jokes any of them have ever heard from the boy. Bill thinks Richie did it to diffuse the tension rolling off of his best friend in incredible waves, and this assumption had been confirmed when Richie had leaned over to nudge Bill in the ribs, assuring him that he was going to give Beverly Marsh the very best first date of her young life. Bill had smiled and turned three shades of pink before muttering back a quiet thanks which was quickly droned out by a downright horrific rendition of _That’s Amore_ that Richie attempted to wrangle the entire car into joining him in singing. He failed miserably, but only by Stanley’s standard as Richie did manage to get Robin to at least hum a little of the chorus.

“Oh, c-c’mon, Stanley,” Bill grins at the memory, “you sh-should be used to Richie by n-now!” Ben shakes his head solemnly.

“I don’t know if it’s possible to get used to him,” he sighs, but there is a touch of fondness in his voice and in Stanley’s eyes when he looks back over his shoulder to where Richie is still struggling to hoist his skates onto his feet. “Christ he even makes putting shoes on into an Olympic sport…” Ben adds just as they feel a chilling breeze whistle in through the open door of the ice-skating rink and Beverly, Eddie, and Mike barrel inside, followed closely by Beverly’s aunt, the lot of them bundled up in scarves, hats, and giant coats.

Shirley spots the three boys sitting on the bench beside Robin and throws her hand up in a friendly wave, which draws her party’s focus in that direction, and Beverly smiles when she catches Bill’s eye from across the room. She heads over to where he’s still wedged beside Ben, and Mike and Eddie follow closely at her heels, all of them grinning until they realize someone is missing.

“Where’s Rich?” Eddie asks, brow furrowed, and Ben snorts before jerking his chin towards where the other boy is struggling still with his skates. He has one of them on now, and is finishing lacing up the other one when he looks up sharply, almost as if he’d heard his name being called, a mile-long grin stretching across his face when he finds Eddie amongst the rest of their friends. Richie pushes himself clumsily onto his feet, wobbling a bit once he’s upright, but then he starts to skate over to where the group is waiting, swinging his arms unbelievably slow and attempting to do the same with his feet.

“ _What_ is he doing?” Mike barks out around a laugh, shaking his head in amazement as they all watch Richie attempt to ice-skate in slow motion. He can’t really do it seeing as he has to keep his feet moving or else he’ll land on his ass, but he’s certainly putting his all into the performance, splaying his arms out on either side of him as he draws closer.

“Eds!” he shouts once he’s near enough to be heard by the other boy, but Eddie feigns deafness owing to the large ear-muffs covering his ears that his mother had forced onto his head before he left the house. He cannot, however, mask the sudden flush of his cheeks, and so he turns his head into the furry collar of his coat, which only seems to fuel Richie’s fire. “The slow-mo run is a classic! This is the height of romance, children! Birthday Billy, take notes!” Richie cries, and both Bill and Beverly blush scarlet. “This is the height of romance!”

“I’ll t-t-take your word for it, Rich,” Bill sputters out, much too quietly for his friend to hear over the other ice-skaters as they whirl around the rink. Richie, for all of his messing around, manages to stay on his feet until the very last moment. One fatal push of his right leg sends him hurtling right into Eddie, knocking both of them to the ground with a loud huff. Richie’s chin bumps against Eddie’s chest, knocking his teeth together, and he winces, letting out a whine, but that surely doesn’t stop him from grinning wily down at Eddie where he’s lying beneath him, sucking in quick breaths.

“Wow, Eddie, here?” he gasps, tearing his gaze from the other boy to look around them quickly. “In front of everyone?” His voice dips low before continuing when he realizes Robin and Shirley are still there. “Well, I mean, as long as I can get it up…” Eddie burns in every spot he and Richie are pressed together, and he is sure his face is violently red as he shoves the other boy off of him.

“Shut up,” he grumbles, dusting himself as he gets back to his feet. Richie stays right where he is, pouting up at Eddie and holding his gloved hand up towards him.

“Help a fella out, Eddie Spaghetti?” he pleads, and Eddie rolls his eyes so hard they’re in danger of tumbling out of his head as he wraps his hand around Richie’s wrist and drags him to his feet, glaring at him.

 _“Don’t_ call me that,” Eddie snaps, turning quickly back towards their friends in the hopes that Richie doesn’t notice the blush sitting high on his cheekbones.

“Well, after that stunning display,” Stanley utters, tone monotonous in a way only he could manage, “I think it’s safe to say Tozier has about as much coordination on the ice as he does off…” The whole lot of them burst into fits of laughter, none so loud as Richie, who leans his body against Eddie’s, shaking with the force of it and nearly landing on his ass again when his feet start to give way beneath him. Eddie latches onto Richie’s side quickly, arm coiling instinctively around the taller boy’s waist, and Richie is over the moon. “Mama, you still need to help Dad out at home?” Stanley whispers, sounding small as he always does whenever his father is mentioned, and Robin nods.

“That is…” the woman’s eyes flicker to Beverly’s aunt, “if you don’t need any help keeping a hold on this bunch...” Shirley smiles sweetly and pats the younger woman on her shoulder.

“Oh no, I’ve got it!” she assures. “You run along now…” Robin looks torn for a moment, her eyes darting over to where her son is standing, something that looks remarkably like worry in her eyes, but she nods, smiling back at the other woman and placing her own hand over Shirley’s before whispering a thank you. Robin moves to hug her son tightly and leaves a smacking kiss in his curls that Richie might have teased Stanley about later if the boy’s mother didn’t look to be close to tears when she did it.

“Bye, Mama - thank you,” Stanley smiles down at his mother, and she pats his cheek gently before wishing Bill a happy birthday, saying goodbye to the rest of her son’s friends, and heading out the door.

 

Once Beverly, Eddie, and Mike all get their skates, it becomes incredibly clear to the group that ice-skating is _not_ for everyone. Beverly is the only one who seems to be holding her own, skating around the whole rink fluidly, just the same as if she were rounding bases back home on the sandlot. Stanley is really the only one who can keep up with her, his long, strong legs serving him well as the pair of them race one another in wide circles. Ben and Bill are hanging back a bit, neither of them doing _too_ terribly but not willing to grow daring just yet. Mike decides very quickly that he much prefers solid ground beneath his feet to ice as he struggles to balance on his skates, and after a couple falls and a surely bruised tailbone, he utterly refuses to set foot on the ice without holding someone else’s hands. Ben and Bill both offer up their arms graciously, and the three of them skate together for a bit, Mike wedged in between them until he shoves Bill away.

“Will you go skate with your girlfriend already, Denbrough!” he chastises playfully, grinning at him. “Or is she on a date with Stanley?” Bill looks over to where Beverly and Stanley are zigzagging around one another, the latter with a determined look in his eyes that Bill recognizes well, and the familiarity of the budding competition he sees between him and Beverly brings a easy smile to his own face. _Maybe nothing has to be different,_ Bill thinks, finally acknowledging the fear he’s felt since the morning they’d exchanged Secret Santa presents, since he and Beverly decided to embark on a relationship beyond friendship. He stops skating, leaving Ben and Mike to move on ahead of him, and he stands there waiting for his girlfriend and his best friend where he can see them drawing closer to him. They both skid to a halt once they reach him, Stanley looking almost like he wonders if he should move along, but Bill smiles at each of them, and Stanley remains where he is.

“S-So who’s winning?” Bill wonders, eyes darting between the pair.

 _“I am!”_ they shout in perfect unison before whirling to face one another, jaws dropped. _“No, I am!”_ Bill laughs loudly and glides forward to place himself in between them, hooking his arms through both of theirs.

“L-Let’s go, you two,” he sighs, dragging them forward as they continue to bicker harmlessly. “You know, you two are st-starting to sound like Richie and Eddie,” Bill jests, and Stanley nearly collapses.

“That’s low, Denbrough,” Beverly whispers, shaking her head solemnly at her boyfriend. “You’re gonna have to pay for that one…” She unravels her arm from his to place her hand directly on the nape of his neck, the tips of her icy fingers making contact with his skin, and Bill jolts from the sensation, squirming out of her reach.

“No f-fair!” he cries as she takes off with a cackle, skating swiftly away from them. “Get b-back here, you!” Bill shouts as he chases after her, leaving Stanley in their wake, who watches both of them go with a small, bemused smile on his face that he is praying will mask the ache in his chest.

He is trying to be happy for his friends. No, he _is_ happy for his friends. Christ, any one of the Losers could’ve predicted this would happen eventually, that Bill and Beverly would find something in each other, in their friendship, and want to test the waters of something deeper. He cannot blame either one of them for seeing something desirable in the other - Beverly with her firecracker personality to match her incredible wit and charm, and Bill with his inextinguishable warmth, his fierce, fierce kindness, his overwhelming sense of empathy, his --

Stanley shakes his head sharply in a fool’s attempt to clear his head, but he is as sure in this moment as he was sure the moment their lips had met that he has feelings for Bill Denbrough, for his best friend who is now dating one of their other best friends, and Stanley does not know how to deal with this. He does not think it’s fair that he _has_ to deal with this, and he’s sure that makes him selfish, but between his mental illness, the verbal abuse he takes from his father day-in and day-out, and the overwhelming guilt he still feels over his attraction to men in general, he thinks he can excuse being a little selfish behind closed doors. He feels a pang in his chest as his eyes find Bill again - God, _why_ do they always have to find Bill? - and he sees him still trying to catch Beverly. He finally does, coiling his arms around her waist, and Stanley can hear her gleeful squeal from where he is still rooted to the same spot they’d left him in. He thinks of their Holiday Party, how easy it was to fool himself into thinking that Bill could like him, that _anyone_ could like him. For all his hatred for them, Stanley is a mess himself, a nasty, unfixable mess. _It was a game,_ he reminds himself impatiently, frustrated with these thoughts as they chase their way around his mind the same way Bill chased after Beverly, only Bill chasing after Beverly makes _sense._ Bill _should_ be with Beverly. Beverly is good, she’s sweet and honest and a _girl,_ exactly what Bill should want and precisely what he deserves.

 _“Stan the Man!”_ the bellowing voice of Mike Hanlon slices through Stanley’s manic thoughts like a streak of light, and he turns towards the sound gratefully, glad for a distraction, glad there is something to focus on that isn’t his own heartache for once. He finds Mike standing near the concession stand with Ben, both boys waving him over, and Stanley smiles meekly. “C’mon, get some grub, Curly Q!” Mike shouts, and Stanley huffs out a quiet laugh, his smile growing into something that feels just a little bit less alien on his face, and he skates over there to join his friends.

 

Richie, as Stanley so eloquently put it, has absolutely no coordination and therefore has not left Eddie’s side for even a moment since they started skating. Their hands are clasped together, and Eddie is glad they’re both wearing mittens, hoping that Richie cannot feel how much his hand is sweating. Richie is swinging their hands between their bodies with so much force he has nearly upended them three times, and Eddie thinks if he yells at him one more time, he might pop a blood vessel, but he is still cold from their initial wipe-out and he really does not want to return home with bumps and bruises for his mother to scrutinize.

“Eds, did you know I love holding hands?!” Richie shouts, much louder than necessary as Eddie is still wearing his ear-muffs and Richie is convinced that he cannot hear him properly through them. “‘Cause I do! I love holding hands!”

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop shouting? I can hear you just _fine_ if you talk a little above normal -- ”

“But Spaghetti darling, I just want to shout from the rooftops how much I love holding hands!” Richie cries, spinning the both of them around dangerously, and Eddie nearly flies into the wall beside them. He regains his footing at the last moment and bops Richie on the head, squashing his beanie further onto his curls and nearly knocking his glasses askew.

“Be careful, doofus!” Eddie shouts. “If I end up with a broken leg, I won’t see the light of day for months!” Richie’s smile falters a bit at that, and he pouts.

“Sorry, Eds,” he whispers this so low that Eddie almost actually can’t hear him, what with the fuzzy earmuffs covering his ears as well as the music blaring from the speakers high over their heads. He can, though, and he smiles despite himself. He squeezes Richie’s hand once, quickly, but it’s enough to nearly stop Richie’s heart.

“S’okay, Rich,” Eddie mumbles, feeling a little embarrassed when he remembers that Richie never means any harm to come from the wacky things he does, that there’s never any malice in his actions.

Richie’s smile slips slowly back onto his face the longer they stand still, just relishing in the fact that Eddie is _holding his hand,_ holy shit? He may have been drunk the night of their Holiday Party, but he remembers everything - every single kiss, every brush of Eddie’s lips against his, and he craves that feeling again, aches for it, feels like he’s constantly chasing after it. He wonders if Eddie thinks about that night as much as he does, if it’s as all-consuming for him as it is for Richie, if he lies awake tossing and turning and mulling over every last detail until the memory of it alone leaves him nearly as breathless as the night itself did.

Eddie coughs nervously, breaking the spell, and he looks away, starting to skate again and pulling Richie with him. They come across Beverly where she’s leaning up against the wall, talking with her aunt, and Richie skids to a halt, the stop so sudden that his feet slip out from under him and he falls to the ice with a thud, dropping Eddie’s hand at the last second so as not to drag him down with him. He lets out an _oof!_ when his ass hits the ground, wincing, and Beverly turns to shake her head at him.

“First day with your new legs, Tozier?” she asks playfully, winking at him, and Richie sticks his tongue out at her childishly from the ground, his arms folded across his chest. She offers her hand out to him and he takes it, allowing her to hoist him back up. “Don’t feel bad, Rich, it takes practice…”

“Practice schmactice…” Richie grumbles, frowning at his skates, and then he looks around. “Uh, Bevs - where’s your boyfriend?” Beverly shifts her weight from one foot to the other with a shrug, looking a little downcast, and Richie sighs. “Oh _no,_ you guys aren’t making it weird, are you?”

“Making _what_ weird, you fuckin’ jackass?” Beverly huffs, shoving the boy a bit too roughly and knocking him into Eddie, who catches him before he topples over again. Richie snakes his glove from his hand and waves it like a flag of surrender.

“Truce, truce!” he cries. “I was only making sure you guys weren't getting too stuck in your heads about this whole dating thing…” Beverly blinks at him.

“What do you mean?” she whispers, and Richie smiles at her kindly.

“Well, I mean - _yeah,_ this is a date for you guys… But you’re still you. Bill’s still Bill. You don’t have to act any differently just because you guys suck face now.” Beverly and Eddie both groan.

“That was _almost_ sweet, Trashmouth,” she snaps, but she’s unable to keep a fond grin from creeping onto her face. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Bevs,” Richie smiles proudly, puffing his chest out. “Now, time to lock you two in the bathroom.” He grabs a hold of Beverly’s arm and starts to pull her in that direction, Eddie coming up on her other side, and she whirls around to face the smaller boy.

 _“What?”_ she demands, trying to jab Eddie in the ribs with her elbow, but he dodges her expertly.

“Sorry, Bev,” he sighs, “wasn’t my idea, but Bill’s already been dragged in there by Mikey and Ben, so you might as well head in there and spring him, if nothing else…” Beverly lets her head fall back with a whine, but stops trying to break free of her friends’ hold, letting them bring her over to the bathroom where Mike, Ben, and Stanley are all standing guard.

“Hello, Beverly, fancy meetin’ you here…” Mike grins, and she flips him off.

“You guys suck,” she declares, and Ben pats her shoulder.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Bev,” he insists. “Spare us and go talk to your boyfriend.” Beverly rolls her eyes.

“You guys couldn’t have found a better spot than the _bathroom?”_ Stanley shrugs, his face straight as a line.

“Sorry, the honeymoon suite was booked,” he deadpans and he opens the door for her, waving her inside. Beverly shakes her head at the ceiling before shuffling into the bathroom, blatantly ignoring the NO SKATES OFF THE ICE sign as she walks past it and closes the door behind her. Bill is, in fact, waiting for her inside, and when he looks up and sees that it’s her, he smiles at her timidly.

“I s-see they got you, too,” he whispers, and Beverly nods.

“Tozier and Kaspbrak are very dangerous when they actually work in tandem,” she insists, and Bill chuckles.

“D-Don’t we know it…” Bill grins. “Any idea why they l-locked us in here?” he wonders as Beverly hops up onto one of the sinks, swinging her feet back and forth where they hang over the edge.

“Oh, according to Tozier, we’re _making it weird,_ ” she explains, air-quotes and all, seeing no reason to beat around the bush after Richie had made her realize just how silly they were really being.

“A-Are we?” Bill asks, brows quirked in question, and Beverly takes it as a good sign that he does not need to ask her what she’s talking about. “Making it w-weird?” Beverly shrugs.

“I mean, yeah,” she admits. “Rich says we’re too stuck in our own heads…”

“Guess even Tr-Trashmouth can be right sometimes…” Bill grins, and Beverly lets her head fall into her hands with a groan.

“God, do _not_ ever let him hear you say that,” she begs, and Bill laughs, moving closer to where she’s sitting so that he can curls his arm around her waist. Beverly tucks her head onto his shoulder sweetly and lets her eyes close with a deep sigh. “He did make a lot of sense, though, Billy. We don’t have to act differently just because we’re dating now… I don’t know why we thought we did.”

“I think it c-c-comes with the label,” Bill explains. “It’s s-silly, but everything around us s-s-says people who are just friends and people who d-date act differently. Th-That doesn’t have to always be true.”

“Certainly not with us,” Beverly smiles, bumping her forehead against his chin, and Bill turns to kiss her brow chastely.

“No,” he agrees, “definitely not with us.” Beverly cranes her neck a bit to seal their mouths together in a sweet kiss. Bill brings his hand up cautiously to cup her cheek, brushing one of her wild curls behind her ear and Beverly smiles against his lips, wrapping her fingers around the collar of his jacket to draw him closer just as they hear a mild scuffle outside.

“Sorry!” Richie’s voice reaches them through the closed door. “Occupado!” Beverly barks out a laugh where her mouth is still pressed against Bill’s, and she pulls back then, keeping their hands linked as she hops down from the sink.

“C’mon, Denbrough - sounds like some poor soul is being tortured by our pals out there… We should save them.” Bill laughs too and nods, letting her lead him back out of the bathroom, and when they emerge, smiling, hands swinging between them, faces slightly flushed, Richie smirks at them.

“Did you guys kiss and make up?” he asks as the poor man who’d been trying to bring his son to the bathroom darts past them, shaking his head, and Beverly flips Richie off once the child is out of sight.

“None of your b-business, Trashmouth,” Bill replies, and Richie holds his hands up.

“Fine, fine,” he sighs. “I’ll get it outta you guys eventually - I hear Billy Boy’s a great kisser…”

“In your dreams, Tozier.”

“Oh, _every_ night,” he promises, winking at both of them before snatching up Eddie’s hand to drag him back onto the ice, and the rest of the group follows suit, everyone breaking off into the same groups as before.

 

Richie and Eddie circle the rink a couple times before growing bored, and so they decide to skate past Bill and Beverly, the latter attempting to teach the boy how to do a simple figure eight movement, but Bill is holding his hands up in surrender, shaking his head apprehensively.

“I’ll be pl-pl-pleased with myself if I can stay on my own tw-two feet for the rest of the night, Bevs,” he insists, smiling at her sweetly, and Beverly pouts.

“Oh, _c’mon,_ Billy - it’s not so hard!” she begs. “Give it one shot, _please?_ ” Bill lets out a long sigh, dramatic enough to pull Richie’s attention from where it had otherwise been permanently fixed on the way Eddie’s fingers are woven through his. Richie grins at the sight before him.

“Look at you two, lovebirds!” he cries happily, sighing. “Eds, have you ever seen a more perfect pair? Well, besides you and me, of course…” Eddie rolls his eyes and says nothing, not trusting himself to not say anything incriminating as he watches Richie hook his arm through Beverly’s. “Bevs, can we try our handshake on the ice?” he asks, eyes bright, and Beverly laughs.

“That sounds like a terrible idea,” she chastises. “I’m fucking in.”

Richie bumps his fist into the air as Bill and Eddie both give the other two space, knowing how elaborate their secret handshake is. They start off promisingly, but by the middle of it when they have to knock their ankles together, both of them end up crashing to the ground, Beverly landing half on top of Richie as they both erupt into a fit of hysterics.

“Told you!” she shrieks between her giggles, and Bill and Eddie offer their hands to the pair, helping both of them back to their feet. “Okay, Bill, _now_ will you try the figure 8?”

“Oh, just do it, Denbrough!” Richie chides before Bill can even open his mouth, punching his best friend’s shoulders. “Don’t make your lady _beg_.”

“B-Beep beep, Richie,” Bill says, feeling his cheeks burn at the thought of Beverly being his _anything,_ and when his eyes flicker to Beverly, she seems to be blushing too, her gaze trained to the toes of her skates. “I’m not d-doing anything if _you’re_ around to watch, Trashmouth,” he jokes, and that makes Beverly snicker. “If I fall on my ass, I don’t n-need you bearing witness to it…”

“Fair enough, Birthday Billy,” Richie concedes. “I shall grant you your wish and be gone! Don’t forget, you still have _two_ wishes left,” he teases, his eyebrows jumping suggestively, and Bill shoves him away from him, knocking him back into Eddie and sending them both flying.

“S-Sorry, Eds!” Bill shouts, but Eddie merely tosses a thumbs-up in his direction as he drags Richie away from the couple and off towards where they can see Stanley, Mike, and Ben grabbing snacks from the concession stand nestled in the far corner of the rink.

“You don’t _have_ to do it if you’re scared of falling, Bill,” Beverly insists, scooting a bit closer to him and reaching tentatively for him to thread their fingers together. Bill smiles down at their hands where they lie joined between their bodies, and he suddenly doesn’t feel so afraid anymore.

“Sh-Show me one more time and I’ll try,” he breathes, and a smile blooms across Beverly’s face, warm enough to melt the ice at their feet. “Just pr-promise you won’t laugh if I f-f-fall…” She stretches on her toes to kiss his cheek swiftly.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

They’re finally done taking their shoes off, and Richie can’t stop staring at Eddie. He blushes nervously underneath Richie’s intense gaze, but says nothing. Eddie’s gaze flickers to Richie’s unflinching one and then he looks back down, the flush in his cheeks deepening as he takes off his wet gloves and stuffs them in his pocket.

“Your eyes are beautiful,” Richie whispers. This time, whatever Richie says is too low for Eddie to hear, and because his head is tipped down, he can’t read his lips.

“What?”

“Your eyes are beautiful,” he tries again, at a more normal volume, but just then, the silence around them is broken and _Your Love_ by Outfield comes blasting through the speakers, so Eddie can’t hear a word he says because of it.

“What?” And as Eddie slides his earmuffs down, Richie shouts what he’s been trying to get up the courage to tell Eddie for much longer than the past 30 seconds.

 _“Your eyes are beautiful!”_ Eddie’s eyes widen, and he flushes red immediately. They both look around the shoe collection, but luckily, nobody is around. They both let out quiet breaths of relief before realizing _that was just said out loud._

“Oh,” Eddie says quietly, the earmuffs around his neck now. His mouth is slightly parted and Richie aches to kiss him like it’s a wound festering inside him.

“Is that… Is that okay? That I think that?” Richie asks softly, taking a small, tentative step forward.

“Y-Yeah. It’s okay…” Eddie whispers. Richie smiles, big and broad.

“Good.” He suddenly presses Eddie up against the door of the employee’s break room, one arm crooked above his head and the other grabbing onto his earmuffs to reel him in closer. Eddie takes in a sharp breath at their proximity. “And what about me?”

“What about you?” Eddie asks, a bit breathless.

“Are my eyes beautiful?” Eddie steels himself, squares his shoulders, and smirks. He leans up on his toes and even further into Richie’s space. If Richie wants to play a game, Eddie is going to play to win.

“A lot more about you is beautiful than just your eyes, but sure, Trashmouth.” Richie’s gaze is burning Eddie alive at the stake and he wonders if this is how Joan of Arc must’ve felt. He thinks dying a martyr might just be as wonderful as people say, because if Eddie is going to be killed for kissing this blazing forest fire of a boy, he’s pretty sure he can’t think of a better way to go.

“You’re dangerous,” Richie smiles, and he looks excited by this prospect, that Eddie might just be as wild and untamed as he is.

“You don’t know the half of it, Tozier…” Eddie whispers, touching the side of Richie’s face delicately with the pads of his fingers. They’re cold, fucking freezing if you ask Richie, but it does absolutely nothing to cool the flames burning him up from the inside out.

“Eddie…” Richie breathes. He leans in. They’re inches, centimeters away. Their lips brush together, just once. The music plays on around them. _I just wanna use your love tonight..._

And then the door bangs open and their friends’ laughter echoes through the small room. They’re forced apart like coiled springs that were only ever waiting to be shoved away from each other or be glued together. Richie wipes his lips off with the sleeve of his jacket and Eddie tries to pretend his breath isn’t coming out in heaving puffs by slouching against the wall with his arms crossed. Everyone looks at them and the laughter dies down.

“Um. Would you like us to leave?” Stanley asks, deadpan, an eyebrow raised almost annoyed.

“No! We’re done in here, right, Rich?” Eddie laughs, high-pitched and ringing even to his own ears. “Well, I am. I’m gonna go wait for Robin outside.” He puts his skates on the counter where the teenaged attendant has abandoned his post. He looks at his friends, and then awkwardly raises two fingers. “Peace out.”

And then he runs out of the room.

“What the fuck was that!” Beverly gasps as soon as he’s gone. She rushes up to Richie and pokes at his chest. “Dish! Dish!”

“I’m… honestly not sure,” Richie says, the ghost of a smile on his face as he watches the door swing closed.

 

When they make it back to Bill’s house after their long day at the rink, they have to be relatively quiet because Georgie is sleeping upstairs. Quiet, for Richie Tozier, is often an impossible task.

“C’mon, Eds, come sit with me. I’m _cold,”_ he whines. He’s pulling on Eddie’s hands and dragging him into the living room. He’s walking backwards and because of this, he bangs into the coffee table. “Ow! Fuck!” he hisses, bending in half to rub at his heel with one hand, using the other to stabilize himself in Eddie’s grasp.

“Be quiet, Richie!” Eddie admonishes, rolling his eyes. He sighs when he sees the genuine look of pain in Richie’s eyes as he holds his foot. “You’ve gotta be more _careful.”_

“How can I, Eds?” he asks with a smirk, looking up from underneath his eyelashes, all traces of pain gone from his face. Eddie’s pretty sure he was only hamming it up to get attention that Eddie is always willingly giving. “I keep falling for you. I’m clumsy in love.”

 _“Okay,”_ Eddie stresses, dropping Richie’s hand and going to sit in the La-Z-Boy while everyone else is in the kitchen, making popcorn and gathering drinks.

“Eddie! Do you not believe me?” Richie pouts, hopping over to Eddie and then unceremoniously dropping in his lap. “See? I’ve done it again!”

“Done what, been an absolute fucking moron? Yeah, you have, congrats.” Eddie claps a few times, needing to wiggle his arm out from where Richie is sitting on it.

“No, Eds…” He leans in close, so close his lips drag against the shell of Eddie’s ear when he speaks. “I’m falling for you.”

“Yeah, okay,” Eddie laughs, strained, and he pushes Richie away, just far enough to let him regain his breath, but still draped over his lap. Richie digs his toes underneath the arm of the plush chair and curls himself up in Eddie’s space, tucking his head underneath Eddie’s chin to make himself as small as possible. Richie in Eddie’s space is sweeter this time, less heated or filled with meaning Eddie isn’t sure is really and truly meant the way he desperately wants to take it. He wouldn’t be able to handle it if Richie is merely fucking with him, trying to get a rise out of him with all of the intense flirting that’s been going on since they kissed at the party, so he doesn’t ask the questions that are burning holes in his skull. _Are you really falling for me? Why did you almost kiss me at the ice rink today? If you do like me, is it only Trashmouth who does - in it for the rise and fall and nothing else?_ He feels like Richie is riding him and his emotions like a rollercoaster, and he isn’t sure Richie wants to stick around once he gets off the ride.

Their friends come back in then and drop a bowl of popcorn on the arm of the chair. Beverly points at it. “For you both to share, because Richie is a heathen and will eat more than his body weight in popcorn if we don’t watch him carefully, and Eddie is better at containing his idiocy than the rest of us.”

She turns away to sit beside Bill, no space between them where they sit, finally comfortable after their day at the ice rink. Bill drapes an arm around her shoulder and Richie pops a piece of popcorn in his mouth. He offers a piece to Eddie as everyone else filters into the room and Eddie opens his mouth. Richie places it on his tongue carefully and watches his mouth closely, so closely that Eddie feels a flush creep up his neck, but he doesn’t want to give up this moment. He licks his lips after he swallows and Richie reaches up slowly to thumb at his bottom lip, dragging the pad of his finger across it gently before letting go. Eddie breathes out roughly.

“You’re dangerous,” he says. His voice is quiet and reedy, and really, he doesn’t mean to say it. It mostly just slips out unbiddenly. But he doesn’t have the wherewithal to regret it - not when Richie is now smirking at him wolfishly. Richie pulls down on Eddie’s lower lip enough to show his bottom teeth and then releases it again. He leans in, so close, enough that the tips of their noses brush, dangerously close for how many people are in the room, and Eddie wonders if Richie only does this when they’re surrounded by their friends because he knows they’ll put a stop to it.

“You don’t know the half of it, Kaspbrak.” They both grin and Richie’s chin tilts forward, almost enough to press their lips together.

The TV turns on then, up too high, and the sound makes everyone jump. Richie breathes out heavily, a rush of air against Eddie’s cheek as Bill rushes to turn it down.

“Fuck, Bill, you’re gonna give us all heart attacks before any of us get to stick it into something warm. Jesus.” Everyone groans and throws popcorn at Richie for his comment, but no one beeps him, so he thinks he’s probably still doing alright. He settles back into Eddie’s lap as Bill flips through the channels, and when they pass _Full House_ , everyone leaps for him to keep it on and cheers when he puts the remote down.

“Who am I to say no to that h-h-handsome mug?” Bill asks, flipping a hand towards the TV where John Stamos is walking across the screen.

“Good goddamn…” Richie sighs, practically melting into Eddie’s lap. “Look at those _thighs._ Mmph.”

“I am absolutely _not_ interested in watching Richie cream himself in Eddie’s lap while watching Full House,” Ben grimaces, wincing at the slack-jawed look on Richie’s face.

“Seconded,” Beverly says.

“Thirded,” Eddie says, and they all laugh disbelievingly when he says this, but say nothing. Eddie stews in his seat, frustrated at everyone in the room now, including and most importantly Richie who won’t stop making comments about John Stamos’ fucking thighs or his ass or whatever every time he’s on screen. It’s lewd and it’s gross and it is not doing anything to make Eddie think that Richie is not in whatever selectively romantic thing they’ve got going on for the fun of it.

Stanley’s favorite character is easily Danny because he says he makes him feel validated, and everyone says that is not at all surprising. Beverly feels bad for Stephanie’s need for outside validation from her family that she’s unable to give herself. Nobody much likes Kimmy except for Ben who laughs out loud at all of her lines. Bill’s favorite by _far_ is Michelle, cooing about how sweet she is and that he wishes he could pull off her one-liners. Mike is big on DJ’s bluntness.

“Okay, I’ve crafted a perfect system,” Richie starts. Most of them turn to where he’s sitting up straight in Eddie’s lap. Eddie isn’t looking at him, and is instead trying to see around him. “There are only three types of people in this world: people who would fuck John Stamos if given the opportunity…” He trails off and everyone looks at him expectantly.

“What are the o-o-other two types?” Bill asks.

“Liars and lesbians.” Most of them groan in agreement, all except for Eddie, who stays quiet.

“Straight men? Absolutely invalid as a culture. Sorry to all straight men in this room, but you know it’s accurate.” Eddie fidgets in his seat, but laughs with the rest of the room regardless.

“I like Joey,” Eddie says after a small break in conversation. Beverly smiles softly at him.

“‘Course you do,” she says, and Eddie has a feeling he knows what she means by that, so he doesn’t ask her to explain herself.

“I do, too, Eds! He’s funny!” Richie smiles.

“Don’t call me that…” Eddie grumbles petulantly. Richie ignores him, barrelling on.

“I should get a puppet!” he says when he sees Joey with his woodchuck.

“No, absolutely not,” Stanley says from across the room.

“Yeah, you should definitely _not_ do that,” Ben says, shuddering. “God, can you only imagine? Tozier with a fucking puppet?”

“Let’s test it out!” Richie says, taking off his blue and red striped sock and slipping it on his hand. “Hi, everyone, I’m Richie’s friend, Lester!” He says this in a weirdly garbled, muffled Voice, trying to speak out of the corner of his mouth as he touches his fingertips together to make the sock look like it’s talking.

“Ugh, I might die if Richie starts doing ventriloquism. Seriously,” Mike groans, falling backwards onto the floor. “I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, but that was just fucking awful.”

“Aw, looks like Mikey doesn’t wanna be friends!” Richie pouts, attempting to make the sock look like it’s frowning. “Isn’t that right, Eddie?”

“Ugh, that sock smells disgusting, Rich. At least use mine,” Eddie groans, slipping off his own sock while he grabs Richie’s sock off his hand with two delicately pinched fingers and throws it into the corner of the room.

_“Lester! No!”_

“Eddie, don’t encourage him!” Beverly moans.

“He isn’t going to _stop,_ so I’m at least going to be able to use my nose while he does it!” Eddie snaps.

“You could… you know… make him get off your lap…” Stanley suggests, raising an eyebrow at them. Richie slides further into Eddie’s lap, curling the arm that isn’t covered with the sock possessively over Eddie’s shoulder.

“Could he?” Stanley and Richie stare at each other until Stanley shrugs and looks back at the television. Richie does too and he whistles poorly when John Stamos walks out in leather pants.

“Goddamn! It’s fuckin’ heating up in here! Look at those _legs_ , my god!” Richie cries, abandoning the sock in his lap.

“I don’t see what’s so _great_ about John Stamos, anyway…” Eddie pouts.

“What!” Beverly cries, whipping to turn to him. “You’re out of your mind! Don’t you dare disrespect the Elvis of our generation!”

“Yeah, Eds, I know you’ve got a jealous streak, but don’t be stupid. John is everybody’s type,” Richie says.

“Oh, so you’re on a first name b-ba-basis with him now, are you, Rich?” Bill laughs.

“My dick certainly is,” Richie sighs. A pillow is thrown at him this time and he laughs, deflecting it so it won’t hit Eddie who is glaring at him.

“Do you _want_ to sit on the floor?” Eddie asks, gesturing to the open space in front of their chair.

“No…” Richie frowns.

“Then stop commenting on John Stamos’ thighs or whatever. For christ’s sake...”

“Aw, Eds, would you rather I comment on yours?” Richie purrs quietly, dragging his hand up Eddie’s thigh slowly and with purpose. Eddie grabs his wrist sharply before it can get higher than he thinks is strictly necessary for whatever game they’re playing. He stares at the TV with wide eyes, throat dry.

“No,” he chokes out. Richie smirks and settles his head on Eddie’s shoulder.

“Sure, Eddie love,” he says easily. Eddie’s cheeks burn and he doesn’t have enough air in his lungs left to admonish Richie for the name because Richie is twining their fingers together and bringing their joined hands up to kiss his knuckles sweetly before letting them drop.

Eddie is certain if this is the last time he and Richie kiss for the rest of their lives, he might be okay with that. He slouches happily into the couch and tips his head onto Richie’s as they continue to watch the show. Richie makes no more comments about John Stamos for the rest of the night, but he doesn’t let go of Eddie’s hand until they have to leave. Eddie thinks it’s a fair trade-off, all things considered.

 

* * *

 

Sue’s Diner, for Valentine’s Day, is not very busy. Richie assumes the _real_ couples must’ve taken their dates to somewhere fancier, like the Italian place on Center Street, or maybe somewhere in Bangor. But for him and his friends, the diner tucked into the corner of Costello Avenue and Jackson Street does just fine for them. Sue managed to decorate - albeit lightly - and she put out a solitary candle on the biggest table in the place when Richie rushed up to her after they all ambled in and begged for a little ambience.

“I’ve got a pretty young thing to woo here, Miss Sue! I need your finest cutlery and silken tablecloths, and I need them _stat!”_ Sue levels a flat look at him over the counter.

“You get one candle. One. And if you burn down my building, I’m taking it out of your mother’s paycheck,” she deadpans.

“Dealio! She won’t even notice! We’re rollin’ in Franklins!” Richie crows. Sue nods disbelievingly.

“Sure, Tozier.” She pulls out a long candlestick and a holder from underneath the counter and puts them on the counter between them warily, keeping their hands on them before Richie can grab them. “You got a light on you?”

“Always,” he says proudly, patting his pocket. She shakes her head.

“That mother of yours better watch you careful, son. Smokes’ll kill ya.” Richie rolls his eyes fondly.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard the speech before, Sue. Candle, please!” She sighs and takes her hands away, shrugging.

“Your funeral.”

“Hopefully!” he laughs, and it's said in jest, but Sue frowns regardless. “Thanks a mil, sweetheart!” He blows a kiss to her and she hums disinterestedly, but she has a small, unmistakable smile that Richie would recognize as fondness anywhere. He winks and jogs over to the table with the candle behind his back.

“Everyone, close your eyes!” he cries with a smile. They all groan in response.

“Rich, we need to see the menu…” Ben sighs.

“Please?” Richie asks, verging on begging, but he’s only looking at Eddie’s annoyed expression, waiting for it to melt into something softer, as it almost always does. The satisfaction of seeing Eddie’s face change from exasperated to affectionate is a feeling Richie is familiar with, but never stops being the best thing he knows. They all close their eyes. “No peeking!”

“Get on with it!” Eddie snaps, but the fond expression doesn’t leave his features, and Richie wishes so desperately he could tell him just how much he likes him without the looming fear of rejection sitting heavy in his chest whenever he tries to spit the words out. He sets up the candle in the middle of the table and lights it with his zippo.

“Violá! Open!” His arms are out and his fingers are wiggling towards the candle when everyone opens their eyes and they all smile at it, grins ranging from sweet to excited. Richie wishes he wasn’t, but he’s only watching Eddie whose smile is the most luminous of them all, lit up with a soft, yellow glow that compliments the pink from the upholstery of the seats reflecting off his face in a lovely way. Richie has never been one to observe color before, but he notices every bright red and deep blue and soft yellow Eddie wears. Today, he’s got on his favorite baby pink sweater that he got at the thrift store in Bangor when they all went to go clothes shopping for Ben in August. When he’d tried it on and asked them all what they thought of it, rambling about it being a silly purchase because it was so warm out, all Richie could choke out was _“Wow.”_ He bought it instantly. Little actions like those keep Richie up at night. He wonders. He hopes.

Today, they’re exchanging Valentine’s Day gifts. They all planned to be each other’s valentines this year mostly to take the pressure off of Beverly and Bill whose relationship is still so new. Most of them got little cards for each other and lots of chocolate. Richie, never being one to go with the herd, did something else.

“Rich, you’re the only one who hasn’t given us presents yet? Did you f-f-forget? It’s okay if you d-d-d-did…” Bill says, tripping over his words the longer he uses them, the anxiety leaking into his voice obviously.

“No, I remembered, Billy Boy. Who could forget this pretty face?” he coos, reaching across the table to pinch Bill’s cheek. Bill giggles and bats him away lightly. “Nah, I didn’t getcha guys cards or nothin’, but I did make ya stuff.”

He pulls out his backpack from underneath the table and sets it in his lap, rooting through it. “For you, Haystack…” He slides a tape to Ben labeled _Benny’s Delicious Ditties_ and Ben’s breath catches. He tries to hide the vast amount of emotions he’s feeling with a joke fit for Trashmouth.

“This all New Kids On the Block and Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch songs?” Richie just grins at him.

“Only one way to find out.” He grabs the next tape and hands to to Beverly who’s seated beside him. “For you, my darling dear.” _Bee’s Darling Dance Move Tunes_ is scrawled onto the label, the letters jumbled together to make them fit, and Beverly nearly can’t read the words.

“Man, Rich, your handwriting is getting worse the longer you go to school, not better…” she says, but she’s grinning kindly at him, head tipped to the side affectionately.

“Aw, I see how it is - I take you all out on a date, I make you romantic mixtapes, and then all I get for it is some words that cut _deeply._ I see. I see…” He’s smiling, too, and everyone laughs, shoving at him from all sides.

“Cut the shit, Tozier, I want mine n-n-next!” Bill laughs, putting out his hands and extending his fingers. “Gimmie, gimmie.”

“Wow, _grabby,”_ Richie comments with a grin. He searches through the rest of the tapes for Bill’s and then slides over _Billy’s Burnin’ Bops._

“Ooh, how much do you wanna bet _Hunk of Burnin’ Love_ is on here?” Beverly asks the table at large.

“I wouldn’t bet against that - I know Tozier,” Mike sighs fondly. Mike laughs at _Mikey’s Silly Singles,_ wondering if it’s exclusively children’s music (with how well he knows Richie, he’s willing to bet), and Stanley gets _Stanley’s Melancholy Mood Music._

“What the hell is this?” Stanley snaps, shaking his tape. Everyone’s grins immediately drop. Richie looks confused.

“What do you mean? It’s your mixtape!” He tries for a grin, but Stanley’s steely expression doesn’t let up and Richie’s grin fades.

“Yeah. Everyone gets, what? Silly Singles? Delicious Ditties? Is this something serious or a crack at my mental health, Rich? Because either way, it’s not very _fucking_ funny.” He starts to get up and Richie is scrambling, physically reaching for the mood to be back where it was: happy, light, excited and joyful.

“No, no, Stan, no! You gotta listen to it! It’s all good songs, I promise! Stan, c’mon, wait!” Nobody is moving aside from Richie and Stanley. Nobody knows what to do. They’ve never seen Stanley get genuinely angry at Richie before, and from what they can tell, in a shocking twist, he doesn’t really seem like he’s angry at Richie - it more seems like he’s _taking it out on Richie,_ and that’s far more dangerous. That’s not something Richie knows how to deal with, and they know that, but none of them know how to stop this bullet train Stanley has headed straight for Richie’s heart.

Stanley slams the mix down in front of Richie and looks him dead in the eye. He looks like he’s vibrating from how hard he’s shaking. They both do. “You didn’t even give me a nickname.”

And then he walks out of the diner, letting the door swing shut behind him without checking to see if it’s closed - they’ve never, _ever_ known Stanley to do that. Not once in all the years they’ve known him. Richie is staring at the tape that Stanley left in front of him, close to tears. He refuses to let them fall. He doesn’t want to show his friends that he’s weak. He’s _so_ weak, and he can’t allow him to see that. But more than that, he needs to know that Stanley is being taken care of.

“Go,” Richie whispers. He looks up when nobody moves. “What the fuck are you still doing sitting here?! Go after him!”

They all scramble out of the booth then, careful not to knock the still-burning candle in the middle of the table, a symbol of all that’s slipping away from them as the wax melts down and onto the wood. Bill leans down to Eddie on his way out who is trying to climb over Richie hastily and Eddie stops when Bill whispers _S_ _tay. He needs you._ Eddie gulps and sits back down where he was beside Richie. He doesn’t know if Richie needs touch right now, so he’s merely a breath away from him in the booth as they listen to the bells of the front door ringing while they all fling it open, calling after Stanley who’s probably ridden halfway down Jackson Street by now and unable to be caught up with.

Richie continues staring at the tape for a long, long time, until finally he just whispers _“Fuck.”_

“Rich, that wasn’t you -- ”

“Oh, yeah? Because it sure seemed like it was me when he was throwing my gift back in my face,” Richie snaps, and then immediately regrets it, reminding himself not to let his emotions show. He rubs his hands quickly over his face and exhales slowly. “Motherfucker, Eds, I’m sorry. I’m not gonna take this out on you.”

“Okay…” Eddie whispers. Never in his life has he felt so damn useless. He wishes Richie would just tell him where he’s at, but loving Richie Tozier is knowing that getting him to express his emotions verbally is like pulling teeth. “Richie, can you talk to me?”

“About what, Eds? That? That was nothin’. Just some fucking chuckalious chucks - nothin’ to see here. Run along, now, Lassie.” Richie shoos him away halfheartedly and Eddie wonders if he really wants him there or not. Eddie decides he doesn’t want to know what happens if Richie is alone right now, and not only that, but Bill is always, always right - Richie needs him. He’s not going to listen to Richie’s veiled pleas to be left alone, because if he knows Richie at all, Richie _never_ wants to be left alone.

“Without my present?” Eddie tries weakly, his smile shaky as he looks at Richie.

“Oh. Fuck. Yeah, a’course…” He digs through his backpack that’s still sitting on his lap and then drops it when he finds Eddie’s tape. “A-ha! Hope you like it…” He laughs weakly, and Eddie can hear the fear in it plain as day. Eddie takes the tape and when he looks at it, his breath catches in his throat just like Ben’s did, but for far different reasons. _Eds’ Swingin’ Seduction Songz._

“Richie…” Eddie says, voice strangled. He opens the tape and looks for a tracklist, but there’s no index card inside. He looks up to find Richie’s eyes looks anywhere but Eddie. “Richie, what’s on here?”

“Nothin’. It’s a black tape. I’m very romantic, I know.” Eddie levels him a dark look that he couldn’t hold back if he tried, and just the familiarity of it puts Richie a bit more at ease.

“Cut the shit, Romeo. What’s on here?”

“I only gave two songs to every person; it’s a double-sided tape,” Richie says, voice nearly as choked as Eddie’s.

“What’s on the first side?”

 _“Happy Together_ by The Turtles,” Richie whispers. Eddie gasps lightly. Everybody knows that song. Everybody knows exactly who you give that song to.

“What’s on the other side, Richie?” Richie is silent for a long time, eyes closed, trying to gain his strength. He didn’t think he’d have to tell Eddie what’s on this tape, and if he did, he thought he’d have the buffer of five other people to ease the ache of rejection he knows is coming. “Richie, what the hell is on the other side of this tape?” Richie opens his eyes and turns to Eddie, and when he does, Eddie feels like he’s still burning in the forest of Richie Tozier. He wonders if he’ll ever stop.

 _“Your Love_ by Outfield.” Eddie remembers the ice rink, _I can’t hide the way I’m feeling,_ and he just snaps.

“Put those on the jukebox,” Eddie demands. He points to the jukebox sitting in the corner. “Now.”

Richie nods dopily and jumps out of the booth. He prays the songs are on the jukebox, and miraculously, they both are. _So much for liking alternative shit, Richie…_ He puts them on in order and then runs to sit back down beside Eddie. He slides into the booth and when he does, their thighs touch. It sends sparks down both their spines, and Richie has half a mind to put some space between them, but then Eddie inches closer, pressing their shoulders together as well, and Richie absolutely _burns._

 _Imagine me and you, I do_  
_I think about you day and night, it's only right_  
_To think about the girl you love and hold her tight  
So happy together_

“God, Rich,” Eddie laughs lightly, and Richie immediately perks up at the sound, “you’re really not fuckin’ around, are ya?”

“No. I’m not.” Richie tries to erase all evidence that a Voice had ever been there when he speaks, attempting to be totally and utterly serious, and it shows in Eddie’s expression that he succeeds. Eddie gasps, eyes widening.

“Richie…”

“Yes, Eddie?” Richie smirks, inching his face closer to Eddie’s. Eddie leans back a bit momentarily and then rocks back into Richie’s space.

“You’re dangerous…” Eddie whispers. He shakes his head slightly and smirks just as deeply as Richie does.

“You love it.” Eddie's blood fizzles with rocket fuel, ready to explode at any moment. He simply shrugs, the same maddening, exciting smirk still on his face.

 _I can't see me lovin' nobody but you_  
_For all my life_  
_When you're with me, baby the skies'll be blue  
For all my life_

Richie is certain this is The Moment. They’ve been waiting for this, he thinks, to be utterly and completely alone. It’s late, very late, and Sue went into the back for a while to let them have their peace when she heard them fighting. Richie leans in, takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. It fans over Eddie’s mouth. Richie reaches up between them and touches the pad of his thumb to Eddie’s lip, tugging on it slightly just as he did at the ice rink. This time, there’s no chance for them to be interrupted. He’s almost certain he can hear Eddie whimper as he does. Eddie isn’t thinking about the germs on Richie’s hands, he isn’t thinking about anything except fear and _winning._ Eddie wants even, wants to win this game, so he does the same thing as Richie and traces his bottom lip lightly with his own thumb, a phantom touch, barely there.

There’s no one to interrupt them now. No television to turn up and spook them, no friends to walk in and shock them apart. This end of town is basically deserted at this time of night unless it’s a weekend and people are crowded into the diner. But it’s a Tuesday, and people want ambience. They want romance.

Richie wants to make his own fucking romance.

He leans in and presses a soft kiss to their thumbs, his lips dragging against Eddie’s skin. There’s two fingers in the way, so he doesn’t touch his lips to Eddie’s, but Eddie can feel his heart beating out of his chest and his palms start to sweat anyway as Richie’s eyes bore into his, so close, dangerously close. He feels like they’re about ten seconds away from a fuse blowing, and he doesn’t know what to do. He wants to kiss Richie for all he’s worth. He wants to run fast and run far, away from where ever Richie will be. He stays right where he is.

Richie takes his hand away from Eddie’s mouth and cups the side of Eddie’s face delicately, with so much more softness than Eddie ever thought he was capable of. He remembers the same soft touch in the trunk on the way home from the beach and thinks for a wild moment that maybe Richie is only soft when it comes to him. Eddie’s finger is still resting against Richie’s mouth, and Richie tilts his head, slowly, so slowly, giving Eddie every chance to pull away as he leans in closer. His eyes flutter shut. Richie kisses him through Eddie’s thumb, and this time, parts of their mouths do brush together. They’re breathing the same air. They’re hearing the same song. They’re feeling the same swelling, rising, cresting fear.

And then the wave crashes.

“No,” Eddie gasps out, rearing his head back and away from Richie’s kiss. Richie blinks his eyes open in shock - he’d honestly thought they were on the same page. He doesn’t remove his hand from Eddie’s face because Eddie doesn’t remove his thumb from Richie’s mouth.

“Why not? Don’t you think about what it would be like when nobody’s around, Eds?” Richie asks, and his lips drag against Eddie’s thumb when he speaks, but Eddie still doesn’t take it away. “It’s quiet downtown - nobody’s going to come in. It’s okay. We’re okay.” He’s trying so hard to be soothing, but he’s assuaging the wrong fears. Eddie isn’t scared of somebody seeing them as much as he is afraid of himself.

“Richie, we can’t.” Eddie takes his hand away from Richie’s face, so Richie does the same, but Richie won’t go down without a fight. He’s still got a hole aching in his chest from Stanley leaving him and he just wants something to go _right._ He just wants to do something right for once.

“Why not? Who’s stopping us? This isn’t fucking _1984_ or some shit - the Thought Police aren’t gonna show up and jail us for wanting to mack!” Richie is verging on yelling, and he’s desperate, so desperate. Eddie is looking at him, mouth opening and closing, brows knit together in confusion and eyes wet with unshed tears. He just wants Richie to understand without having to say anything.

“Because… Because I’m…” Richie is looking at him with the same wet eyes, pleading with Eddie to help him understand why he acts like he wants this and then says that he doesn’t. Eddie opens his mouth. He tries to speak. _Because I’m scared,_ he thinks, clear as day.

And then he scrambles out of the booth and runs out of the diner. Richie runs after him, but says nothing as he stands in the doorway watching Eddie awkwardly mount his bike. Eddie looks back. The shadows across both their faces in the neon lights of the diner make them seem foreign and absolutely unfamiliar.

Eddie takes off into the night and leaves Richie standing in the doorway of Sue’s Diner, heart bleeding in his outstretched hands. The song continues to play from inside as Richie wanders back in, entirely alone. He slowly walks over to the table and blows out the mostly melted candle. He stares at the smoke rising, at everybody’s cards and tapes all left on the table - all but Eddie’s which he pocketed before bolting. He realizes that everybody that has ever mattered to him has left him. He feels like he deserves it.

“Everybody always leaves,” he whispers.

_I don’t wanna lose your love tonight..._

 

* * *

 

Richie Tozier turns 16 years old on March 7th, 1992, and because the Losers thought the last party they had was such a rousing success, they planned another one. They’re all going to go to Stanley’s house this time, despite Richie’s pleas to allow him to host it again. Stanley’s father has to go to the Temple early the next morning, so he’s going to bed around 9:00. Richie had gotten jumpy and excited when told this. He said they’d have Stanley’s house mostly to themselves anyway, and if they weren’t overly loud in the basement, they could do whatever they pleased. Richie’s eyebrows jumped and Stanley had rolled his eyes, and after a bit of hemming and hawing, agreed to host Richie’s party at his house.

They made these plans a week before Valentine’s Day. Richie hasn’t spoken to any of them since then, but all of them are certain he’ll show up to his own birthday party. They hope to patch things up there.

Beverly and Eddie are walking over together, a comfortable silence on Beverly’s part, and a nervous, tense silence on Eddie’s. He’s gonna do it. He’s gonna tell someone. He’s going to tell someone he’s gay.

The thing is, Eddie is fucking _frightened._ And he knows it’s just Beverly. He knows she’s had some sort of inkling for a while now. He’s sure everyone has. It’s embarrassing, the way he knows he looks at Richie, but it’s incriminating as well. After everything that’s happened in the past few months, the amount of times they’ve kissed (and _almost_ kissed), Eddie is certain. He’s even more certain than he was at the party. The anticipation whenever Richie leans in, when he can feel Richie’s breath on his mouth, when he can smell his confusing scent, a mixture of spicy and floral that leaves Eddie reeling every time, it’s… it’s too much to bear. He _wants_ Richie. He wants him more than he’s ever allowed himself to want anyone else, because now that he knows what it’s like to have him, he can’t think about anything else. He’s consumed by it. Every time they’re together, it’s fucking explosive. It always has been, but it’s different now - Richie is hiding less of… his feelings? Less of whatever he was hiding before. Eddie ran away from Richie to hide in a shell, to buy himself some time for when he could finally come out the way he knew he was prepared for - on his terms. He wants to tonight at the party. He’s planning on pulling Richie aside and apologizing for the way he’s been treating him, for running away when he really wants to be right by his side; he’s going to actually fucking _say_ something. Stop hiding. Stop being a fucking coward.

But he needs to practice first, when the stakes are a bit lower, and Beverly is safer. Beverly is a girl, for one, but more importantly, Beverly is the least judgemental person he knows. She won’t disapprove of this. She can’t.

He’s got to just blurt it out - can’t think about it, can’t imagine what it’ll be like if Beverly rejects him, tells him he’s sick, he’s dirty --

“Bev,” he starts. She hums, unaware of his complete turmoil. “I think I like boys.” His voice wavers, but he’s certain in his words. Beverly stops, foot in the air. She lowers it and looks at Eddie slowly.

“You think?” Eddie nods, eyes not meeting Beverly’s.

“I… I know I do.”

She weighs her options as she looks at Eddie’s face. She could tell him she knows, of course she knows, she’s Eddie’s best friend and she’s watched him interact with Richie Tozier for four years. She could feign surprise, act like this is all a big shock to her. She could tell him her own secret that she’s been hiding for years. Or she could approach with caution. She’s not sure what Eddie needs right now, so she rolls the dice.

“You do?” Caution, then.

“Yeah,” he says, looking down, not making eye contact with her at all. He looks anywhere but her, zipping and unzipping his fanny pack over and over. “Is that…” He zips it closed and looks at her. “Is that okay?”

Beverly’s heart breaks. “Of course it is, Eddie. It’s more than okay. It’s perfect because it’s you,” she says, giving Eddie an encouraging smile, and he begins wailing. He throws his arms around her.

“I’m so scared,” he whispers harshly, miserably, his tears staining her dress. “What if my mom finds out? She’s gonna call me _sick_ , Bev.”

“You’re _not_ sick,” she assures him, rubbing his back in long, soothing strokes. “You’re not sick.”

“I know I’m not. I don’t…” He sniffs and pulls back. She keeps her arms around him. “I don’t see anything wrong with being… you know. I don’t know why it’s such a bad thing to people. It doesn’t makes sense.”

“Not to me either. I…” She sighs, and she feels tears start to come to her eyes. _Shit_. “I like girls. I’m bisexual. I like both.”

“Really?” he asks, smiling. “That’s -- Bev, that’s great. Have you dated a girl?” She shakes her head.

“I haven’t had the chance. Friends with six guys, remember?” she teases, sniffling, and Eddie smiles wider. “I’ve had crushes though…”

“Wow…” Eddie whispers. “I thought… I felt like the only one in the world.”

“It feels like that at first. But learn about the Stonewall riots. A transgender lady threw the first brick to start a gay revolution back in the 60s and 70s. We haven’t been the only queers for a long time.” He smiles wanly.

“If my mom finds out I’m researching the gay revolution, she’ll have my head…” Eddie chuckles weakly and Beverly gives him a sad look, squeezing his shoulders.

“I couldn’t tell my dad either. He would’ve…” She breaks eye contact for the first time during this conversation. Eddie knows bits and pieces about Beverly’s past with her father, knows the dark truth of how he died and why he needed to, but he never pushes her, and neither does anyone else in the group. Eddie knows that Bill met him and it was a horrifying experience for him that he doesn’t like to talk about to the rest of them, only in hushed tones and in private with Beverly. He’s glad Bill is keeping Beverly’s privacy; she deserves it after what she went through.

“Yeah. I’m sorry, Bev,” Eddie says, not sure how much she wasn’t to discuss.

“It’s alright. I mean, it’s not alright, but it is now. I stay with my aunt, you know, and she’s really sweet. She moved here for me and everything. I didn’t think I deserved that. He’s… he’s gone now,” Beverly responds vaguely. Eddie nods.

“And you’re okay with that?” Eddie asks carefully and Beverly shrugs.

“It’s fine. I don’t think about it too much,” she lies, and Eddie knows she only does that so they stop talking about her dad. “But I think it’s great you’re gay, Eds. Do you have a _crush_ on anyone?” she teases, poking him in the side.

Eddie rolls his eyes, cheeks heating up, and batting her away. “Shut up, Bev,” he chuckles. She raises an eyebrow and he looks sadly at his shoes. “I don’t know…”

“It doesn’t have to be a bad thing… if you do,” she says carefully. “You know, he…”

“He what?” Eddie asks hopefully.

“He flirts with you all the time. Richie does. He’s always looking at you, touching you. It all looks so natural - like a hand holding itself. With the way he was at the party, and ever since then… I dunno. Maybe he likes you back,” she says. She hates lying to Eddie, at least by omission, but she can’t blow Richie’s secret. This is their thing. Beverly and Bill had already decided they wouldn’t get themselves involved until they started hurting each other. _Really_ hurting.

“Yeah, but he flirts with everybody…” Eddie sighs. He hasn’t told her about Valentine’s Day and he feels a little sick leaving out such pertinent information, but he wants to know what she thinks of the situation without his mistake weighing heavy on her mind. Beverly tuts.

“Not really, Eddie. I mean, come on, look at the party. He asked you to marry him with _gum wrappers._  If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

“Maybe someone who _tells_ the person they love,” Eddie hisses. It hurts to say, but he knows it’s true; Richie Tozier doesn’t lie, doesn’t hold anything in. He’s certain if he held a flame for Eddie in his heart, he’d say something, Eddie’s sure of it. Everything that’s happened since the Holiday Party feels like just an extension of the game they played, but maybe if Richie told him he feels something real, it would make Eddie brave enough to admit it, even to himself. Being gay? He can deal with being gay - or at least he can try. Now that Beverly has told him, assured him, that it’s more than alright, he doesn’t feel alone in that feeling. He knows it’s okay. He knows being gay is alright.

What’s not alright is having feelings for Richie Tozier if Richie Tozier doesn’t have feelings for him back.

“Maybe, Eddie,” Beverly offers kindly, “even Richie Tozier gets scared, too.” They walk up the stairs of Stanley’s house and Beverly reaches out to give him a hug. “You’re gonna be okay. You both are, I know it.”

“I love you, Beverly Marsh.”

“I love you back, Eddie Kaspbrak.” She pulls back and smiles at him, and Eddie believes Beverly, believes that he’s going to be okay. Beverly didn’t reject him, and Richie won’t either - he just knows it.

Beverly presses on the doorbell and they say a quick hello to Stanley’s father, heading towards the basement stairs.

“Besides,” Eddie says, already laughing, “since when is Richie ever scared? Isn’t he always ranting about how fearless he is?”

“Oh, yeah,” Beverly comments sarcastically. “The most fearless. He definitely didn’t almost shit himself when that clown came up to him at the fair we all took Georgie to last year.”

They both laugh hysterically at the memory as the descend the stairs.

When Richie had gotten there, they all took a shot of the Tennessee Honey Whiskey Richie had stolen from his mother’s liquor cabinet. Richie made a comment about how good it tastes, _like Bill’s mother_ , as he says. None of them laugh and Stanley rejects his high-five, a familiar scene. It’s an old joke, but he’s not feeling too festive as of late to come up with original material, so he falls back on old favorites. He and Stanley haven’t looked at each other once since he walked into his basement, and had immediately reached for another swing of alcohol when Stanley avoided his eyes. He knows he’s in danger of acting like his mother - masking his feelings with alcohol. He couldn’t care less at the moment. Most of them are at the party already, all except for Beverly and Eddie. The two of them show up a bit late, bounding down the basement stairs, holding hands and giggling into each other’s shoulders. They look happy - _very_ happy. They almost look like they’ve been drinking already, shoulders relaxed and eyes folded up with laughter, leaning into each other.

Bill smiles fondly at them. “Hey, p-p-pals. Happy looks good on you.”

Beverley looks up at him and then back at Eddie, her smile loving and kind. Richie feels his skin crawl, wishing how badly that could be him. He wants to be allowed to hold Eddie. He wants to be allowed to _love_ Eddie. “Just talking about something with my friend Eddie, here.” Eddie looks at her with the same fond look, and Richie’s mind goes into overdrive.

“Yeah,” Richie says, putting on a Brooklyn detective Voice. “ _Too_ happy.” He pretends to use a microscope to look at them, pulling his fist back and forth, squinting at them. They both laugh.

“Richie, come off it,” Eddie says, but he’s blushing. Beverly tosses her arm around Eddie casually, pulling him into her side. Richie yearns for a time that anything he did or said around Eddie could be that natural, but he knows how robotic he seems to Eddie; a joke machine, a laughing stock, someone to roll your eyes at and move on from. That’s how he thinks everyone sees him.

“Yeah, Richie, Eds and I were talkin’ about -- ”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Eddie stresses, cutting her off. Richie feels the jealousy in him rise at her flippant use of the nickname. _Anyone can use that, asshole_ , he admonishes to himself. _Eddie’s not yours. He belongs to no one._ Beverly kisses Eddie’s cheek and his insistent frown twists into a grin. _No one but Bev, I guess._

Richie wants to blame this on Beverly, he does. But he can’t. They’re not doing anything wrong. Richie knows he wouldn’t be jealous if he weren’t inebriated, that Beverly is dating Bill anyway and that she’d never cheat on him. None of them get jealous of each other. There’s nothing to be jealous of. But his brain, already tipsy, tells him if Eddie wants to like a girl, if the two of them want to go around being all cuddly and gross, that’s fine with him. _Really._ He’s going to show them all just how _fine_ Richie Tozier is.

He releases his fists from where they’re digging half moons into his palms and digs out every Voice and every trashmouthed word he can from the darkest depths of him. He smirks.

_This is gonna be fun._

 

It is not fun. No one, including Richie, is having fun at this birthday party. Richie would feel a bit guilty if Beverly didn’t keep looking over at Eddie worriedly. Eddie is sulking in the corner, nursing his fourth cup of jack and coke, as he watches Richie mercilessly and very exaggeratedly flirt with everyone at this party.

Everyone, of course, but Eddie. If he wants to be all gooey and lovey-dovey with Beverly, that’s just absolutely just fucking dandy in Richie’s mind.

Richie sees Beverly and Bill talking over by the chips and, instead of doing what his gut tells him which is to go talk to and comfort Eddie, he slinks up to the pair by the table and throws his arms around them, cocking his hip. He gives Bill a sexed-out look.

“Hey, Billy. How’s it hangin’?” Bill shifts in a way that Richie would read as uncomfortable if he wasn’t this inebriated. He can barely read anyone’s emotions, even when he’s sober. That’s why Trashmouth comes out at the most ill-opportune moments. But drunk? Any chance of him reading body language is shot completely to hell.

“Fine.” The word comes out of Bill’s mouth with trepidation, glancing at Eddie before focusing back on Beverly.

“Yeah, _truly_ ,” Richie comments, letting out a wolf-whistle as he gives Bill a very obvious once-over. Eddie sinks lower in his chair by the window. “And what about you, Bevvy, I -- ”

“ _Don’t call me that_.” Beverly’s voice is dangerous, suddenly, but it doesn’t waver. Richie smirks, knowing nothing about why Beverly can’t be called by that name. Beverly doesn’t like to talk about her home life with anyone in the group, not wanting to worry them. Bill and Eddie have both seen firsthand what her father’s like, being the only two she’s even scratched the surface of discussing it with, so they both realize the depth and gravity of this situation. Everyone around them feels a bit nauseous as they watch Richie dig himself deeper into this hole.

“Why not, sweet thing? Aren’t you my princess?” Richie leers. Eddie suddenly jumps up out of his seat and marches decidedly over to the three of them before Bill can even get in a _beep beep, Richie_.

“She’s not your princess, douchebag. She’s no one’s princess,” Eddie yells, words barely slurred. He takes a brief moment to be proud, considering his head began spinning the moment he stood up. Beverly’s eyes go wide, smiling gratefully when Richie turns to Eddie.

Richie takes his arm away from her shoulders and they both clearly relax somewhat, especially Beverly. “She seems to be yours,” Richie says, stepping up to Eddie and doing everything he can to tower over him. Eddie, of course, does not back down. He’s not afraid of Richie Tozier, no matter how terrible he can act.

“Don’t flirt with people who don’t want it,” Eddie warns, ignoring Richie’s statement. It’s insane to even think about for Eddie, Beverly being his _anything,_ romantically at least. Beverly is Eddie’s ear, his shoulder, the pieces of himself he didn’t know were missing. Richie, though, is Eddie’s whole heart, his breath, his entire nervous system. And, right now, his heart is beating wildly, his breath is ragged, on the verge of gasping, and his nervous system sings through him like a fire burning up a forest. Both of them are going to burn in this house, Eddie realizes, right now, tonight. He’s going to go down a hero, a martyr, a soldier, dying at the feet of his own wild, breathless love, or he’s not going to go down at all.

“What,” Richie challenges, taking another step further so they are a breath away from one another. Eddie remembers the several times they’ve been close like this, and it always felt burning hot, but never like this. Eddie feels like his blood is going to spark from how fast it’s flowing through him. He feels like a matchbox and Richie is every flame on earth, cataclysmically close to him and threatening to burn him to ash. “You mean people who aren’t you?”

The whole house goes silent around them. Everyone steps closer to them at the intensity of Richie’s voice. It is not said in a shout, nor a whisper, but the edge of something big. The precipice of falling or flying. Eddie tries to quickly weigh his options before realizing that he _has_ no options. He is not about to be drunkenly turned down by Richie Tozier - the one it would destroy him from - in front of every single person he cares about. _No, Richie is done breaking hearts tonight_ , Eddie thinks, on the opposite cliff. They all wait, in the buzzing moment of opportunity.

Eddie sneers. “I could never be with you, Tozier.” And they fall. And there is no one to catch either of them at the bottom.

Richie looks absolutely devastated for a long, drunken moment. His own heart is in pieces in his hands and he is unshakably sure, deep where he’s refused to let himself go since the Holiday Party, that Eddie is telling the truth. He slowly pulls his face into something resembling defeat. Eddie knows what he said may have been interpreted as hurtful, but a small, desperate piece of him, buried in the place where he keeps his love for Richie, hoped he would take it the way he meant it; I _could_ never be with you. Eddie knows, is certain, that Richie would never be with him.

At least, he was until the moment just after he said it.

Beverly steps up next to them, and they both turn. Her hands hover over both of their shoulders but do not make contact. The bridge between them lies broken.

“Maybe,” she tries gently, looking between them, “we’re all just plain bad for each other.”

They all realize what she means, what she suggests in that: take a break. The one who fights for them to stick together in every situation is suggesting that they stop being a group, a club, the Losers’ Club.

They all look at Richie, who looks away, and then at Eddie. It is up to him to fight, to make a case for them, to give a Denbrough speech. And then, suddenly, Eddie runs out of the room. Beverly with Richie trailing follow him into the bathroom where he vomits up the contents of his stomach into the toilet. Beverly looks at Richie and they both rush into the bathroom. Eddie is having a panic attack as he throws up, in between heaves commenting rushed and wild about how much bacteria is going to be in his mouth, how he’s never going to be able to get it all out.

“I’m dirty.” It sounds like the words are coming from a place of himself Richie and Beverly have never quite seen before, over and over, repeating himself, until someone stops him. “I’m dirty. I’m dirty.”

“You’re not dirty, Eddie,” Richie says, kneeling in front of him as Eddie slumps against the wall. _You’re the furthest thing from dirty_ , Richie thinks. _You’re the purest thing I know._ “You’re not dirty. Bev, go ask Stan if he has a new toothbrush.”

“I need my inhaler. I need it. Richie, I -- ”

“Bev, get the inhaler, too!” Richie shouts as Beverly rushes out of the room. Eddie covers his ears and begins rocking back and forth. “Sorry, Eds,” he whispers, reaching out to try to put a hand in his hair, squeeze his shoulder, anything to make contact with the wheezing boy in front of him. He knows before this party, he would’ve. But he doesn’t. He’s not sure if he would even be helpful for Eddie right now. He ends up putting his hand back in his own lap, but leans further into Eddie’s space, and as heartbroken as he is, Eddie is grateful for Richie’s closeness. It’s Richie’s proximity above all else that begins to make his racing heart begin to calm.

Beverly comes back a moment later, tossing the inhaler to Richie who catches it as easily as he would a baseball thrown by her. He refuses to think about how this might be the last time he catches something pitched by Beverly Marsh. She begins tearing through Stanley’s cabinet and Richie puts the inhaler in Eddie’s mouth and Eddie reaches up with a quick, shaky hand to press down on the trigger. Beverly holds up a pink, sparkly toothbrush triumphantly, and hands it over to Richie. Eddie’s breathing steadies as he presses on the trigger again.

“Come on, Eds. Let’s go brush your teeth,” Richie says quietly, and Eddie’s movements are slow and clumsy as he tries to get to his feet, Richie grabbing onto his arm when he stumbles. “Woah, nelly. Come over to the sink.”

Together, with Richie working the sink and Eddie trying to hold the toothbrush in one place, they wet it and put toothpaste on it. Eddie keeps missing his mouth, now much more drunk than he was before after all the adrenaline of the last two hours slowly escapes his body as he comes down from the panic attack. Richie, however, is now very, very sober as he tries to ease the toothbrush out of Eddie’s hand.

“Eds, let me.”

“I hate when you call me that,” he mumbles petulantly, letting Richie take it away and brush his teeth for him. Richie is almost certain he doesn’t hate it, remembering the ride home from the beach, but after everything that’s happened tonight, after being thrown for so many loops by Eddie Kaspbrak, he isn’t sure of anything anymore. Still, he doesn’t push the issue with him with a toothbrush in Eddie’s mouth. It’s an incredibly domestic, intimate moment, and Beverly feels like a voyeur in the worst way possible just being in the same room as them, so she eases her way out. Eddie doesn’t even notice Beverly’s escape as he goes to slap at Richie’s wrist. He misses, pawing at the air.

“Don’t forget the molars,” he says, voice garbled by the toothbrush.

“I won’t, Eddie,” Richie says, rolling his eyes lovingly. Richie brushes until Eddie tells him to stop, which is about six minutes later. Richie holds back a Trashmouth comment about how long Eddie took. Eddie spits and then turns back to him.

“Tongue,” he says, sticking his tongue out, and Richie shakes his head fondly, a small smile on his face, as he brushes Eddie’s tongue and the roof of his mouth. Eddie spits again and fills his mouth with water, spitting it out, repeating this several times. Richie grabs a bit of toilet paper for Eddie and the boy wipes his mouth off and gingerly tosses it in the garbage can next to the sink, afraid to miss and get the bathroom even more dirty than it already is. He faces Richie again once he’s finished, but he’s unable to look him in the eye, choosing instead to stare at his chin.

“I wanna go home,” Eddie says quietly in a somber tone. Richie nods his head, putting the toothbrush down.

“I’ll take you home, come on,” Richie says, trying to ease Eddie out the door of the bathroom.

“I can walk myself,” Eddie says crossly, tripping over the bath mat as he does.

“You can barely walk in a straight line, Kaspbrak. If the cops found you, what would your mother think?” Eddie huffs and shrugs, looking away.

“Fine. But I have mouthwash in my bag, and I’m using it on the way home.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” They come out of the bathroom to find everyone in the kitchen, waiting for them.

“I’m gonna take Eddie here home.” They all nod in understanding. “Bev, can you deal with the toilet for Stan the Man? Don’t want him to have to clean up something he doesn’t need to.”

“And I do?” Beverly teases, smiling a bit. “Naw, I’m kidding. Happy to help. Hey, get home safe, kiddo. Call me, alright?”

Eddie nods, but says nothing. He gives her a sad look, and even though he’s not desperate or trying to communicate he wants to get out of being walked home, she purses her lips.

“C’mere, Eddie, lemme help you with your coat,” Beverly says sweetly, beckoning Eddie over to the coat rack. He ambles over, shoulders slumped, and as she puts his jacket on, she whispers to him. “Eddie, are you sure you’re okay with Richie walking you home right now?”

He thinks for a moment, knowing Beverly’s question is meant with the utmost severity of consent. Beverly is religious about knowing if her friends are okay with the things they do because she wasn’t okay with her own life for so long. Eddie turns to her, zipping his coat up, and nods.

“We’ll be okay.”

As Beverly does this, Bill, their designated driver for the evening, is watching Richie standing alone by the door, his body language almost shrinking out of nervousness. Bill walks over to him and puts a hand on his shoulder, knowing Richie will need physical contact for what Bill is about to utter.

“I’m d-disappointed in you, Richie.” And he is. Bill is upset, of course, but he’s more disappointed than anything else. He has more faith in Richie than anyone else on Earth. He believes in Richie. He trusts him deeply, and still does. But right now, Bill’s faith lies broken in pieces between them. It’ll take time to mend.

Richie fishmouths, brow knitting together in pain, and he staggers a bit, back hitting the door. Bill Denbrough, his best friend in this entire fucking world, is _disappointed_ in him. He feels like there is no returning from the low he has sunk to. _This is what rock bottom feels like, you absolute fucking asshole_ , he thinks. _Take a look around. This is your life. This is what you’ve made of it._

Eddie walks back to him, replacing the spot Bill has just vacated, and Beverly nods resolutely at the two of them as Bill takes his spot beside her. They look like twin statues of a war they never meant to fight.

“Be good,” she says, and to them, it sounds more like she’s talking to Richie than anyone else, but she says it to both of them, looking back and forth between them. Richie looks away and then looks back. He digs out his Trashmouth defenses because only Trashmouth can handle what’s crashing down around him.

“Eddie Spaghetti is quite good, isn’t he?” Richie fusses with Eddie’s hair. Eddie shoves at him weakly and then smiles at his shoes helplessly. “See you guys later, right?”

They all nod, but none of them speak, a response left unspoken for a reason. The silence hangs heavy in the room as they grab Eddie’s backpack and leave the house.

Richie walks Eddie home, an arm wrapped around his waist to keep from falling. Eddie leans into his touch, greedy, taking every ounce of body heat and affection Richie is willing to give, hands fisted in Richie’s jean jacket to keep himself upright. They don’t speak, except for Eddie to ask a question halfway to his house.

“Which one is the real you? Trashmouth or Caretaker?” Richie looks sharply over at him, but Eddie’s watching his feet, making sure they don’t trip over themselves. Richie lets out an inaudible breath.

“I wish I knew,” Richie whispers harshly, tears welling up in his eyes. He takes a deep breath and stomps them down, squeezing his eyes shut and then quickly releasing them. He wishes he could be both people at once.

“Me, too,” Eddie answers, voice sad but not devastated. It’s as if he assumed as much, or worse. It absolutely breaks Richie’s heart.

After another 15 minutes of stumbling, they make it to Eddie’s front door, and once they get there, Eddie turns to Richie, his eyes lighting up. “Oh! Your present! I can give it to you here because… alone…” The end of Eddie’s sentence trails off into nothing as Eddie tries to get his backpack off his shoulders. Richie helps him slide it off and together, Richie holding the bag and Eddie rifling through it, Eddie pulls out an empty wine bottle, stuffed with paper and a fresh piece of slightly crushed mistletoe around the rim. Richie looks at the label and sees that it’s the same wine bottle from the Christmas party. Eddie must’ve swiped it afterwards and is now giving it to Richie with mistletoe on it. He must have stolen it with the _intent_ to give it to Richie.

 _Oh, my God_ , Richie thinks, eyes widening. _I made a terrible mistake tonight, didn’t I?_

“Here,” Eddie says, replacing the backpack with the bottle and putting back on his backpack with its zipper gaping open wide. “Happy birthday. I stuffed it with paper so it wouldn’t break in my bag.”

“Yeah,” Richie says, faintly. “I -- ” Richie knows he needs to thank Eddie, but he cannot seem to form another word. He’s stuck there, eyes shining, bottle in his hands, one hand cradling the mistletoe.

Eddie starts to lean in and Richie’s body goes rigid. _No, not while he’s drunk, not like this_ , Richie thinks desperately, having half a mind to pull away. He doesn’t want their first real kiss - their first private kiss that’s _theirs_ \- to be drunken and brokenhearted. But his lips land softly on Richie’s cheek, a long chaste press of Eddie’s mouth branded into his skin. The smell of mint overwhelms Richie’s senses. When Eddie pulls back slightly, he lets out a puff of air onto Richie’s cheek, and Richie looks to see that his eyes are still closed. Richie burns. He wonders if Eddie is the match that set him on fire so many years ago.

“Thank you, beautiful boy,” Eddie sighs, and he turns to unlock his front door. He slips inside and Richie is left leaning miserably against the door. He slides down until he’s sitting on Eddie’s front porch, the bottle in his hands.

“What have I _done?”_


	4. Spring, 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes, the difference between _lonely_ and _alone_ is impossible to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to Bad Spring™. shit’s gonna get sad. we sorry.
> 
> this chapter has a mixtape in it. here’s a [link](https://open.spotify.com/user/gqefiixgfkz6en12ub8bpr3zr/playlist/6ywmRJC5YRHBoN9iWzaFx0?si=fPRkzORYTQietPKDzK3SIQ) to it.

Maggie Tozier is tired. She’s so, so tired of her son being locked in his room all day listening to records and warbling along to, frankly, depressing as hell songs that have her ready to either shoot him or shoot herself. The few times she’s gone in his room over the last few weeks, it’s been an absolute sty and she’s just so fucking tired of it.

So while she thinks Richie is in school, she downs two consecutive shots of bourbon, grabs the vacuum and the garbage can, and heads into Richie’s room.

“Hey!” Richie cries from his bed. She looks over and he’s clad in nothing but the pajama bottoms she saw him wear all weekend and a shirt that she can practically smell from the doorway. She wrinkles her nose as he continues yelling. “Mom! Get the fuck out of here!”

She simply sets the vacuum down in front of the door to hold it open and starts picking up the wrappers, papers and other various pieces of garbage that have accumulated over the last three weeks. “Richie, I don’t know why you’re not in school right now, but this room is a goddamn disaster. And if you’re not going to pick up after yourself, I, as your mother, have the responsibility to.”

Richie scoffs. “Like you have the responsibility to love me and care about me as well.”

Maggie rolls her eyes, gathering Richie’s abandoned textbooks that are quite literally gathering dust and putting them on his desk. “I love you. You know I do.”

“Yeah, maybe. But you don’t really seem to care.” She rounds on him.

“I care! I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t -- ” Hiccup. “ -- care!”

Richie laughs cruelly. “Mom, are you drunk right now? At 11 o’clock in the fucking morning on a Monday? That’s pathetic even for your standards.”

“Oh, please, Richie,” she sneers, turning back to the desk and straightening up things, “don’t go judging me about my habits and what I do to get by in this house when all you do is mope around up here and listen to The Smiths all day.”

“The Smiths are -- Mom, no!” Richie cries suddenly, leaping off the bed as the book that had been on his lap goes clattering to the ground. He pays it no mind as his mother drops Eddie’s wine bottle in the garbage can. “Mom! That’s _mine_!”

“What is? That bottle? It’s garbage, Richie, I’m just cleaning up. God knows why you’re drinking Moscato, that shit is nasty, but -- ”

“It’s not garbage, Mom, fuck,” Richie storms. He snatches the can from her with a glare and begins rooting through it. He pulls out the bottle victoriously, but notices immediately that the dead mistletoe is gone. “Where’s the… Where’s the mistle--…” He puts the bottle down on the floor carefully and starts digging through the garbage, violently searching for it. “Where is it! Where is it!”

“Where’s what, Richie? The dead leaves that were on the bottle? God, what has gotten into you? They’re probably crushed and gone by now with the way you’re rooting through that thing,” she answers, and he looks up at her with tears in his eyes. He shoves the garbage can back in her hands and storms back to his bed. “What’s so goddamned special about an empty bottle of shitty wine with some dead leaves on it?”

Richie crosses his arms and stares her down, not even bothering to wipe the tears off his ruddy cheeks. “Would you even care if I told you? Funny how you care so much that my room is so messy, but you haven’t even bothered to ask why.” She takes a step back, realizing she hadn’t even thought about why her son has been skipping school, hasn’t been showering or why his room is so dirty. She just found herself bothered by it all. “Now leave.”

She takes the garbage can, the vacuum cleaner and her pride and leaves the room, closing the door softly. But not before slowly placing the wine bottle back where it was in the middle of Richie’s desk so it doesn’t get knocked down and shatter.

As Richie stares at the bottle, violently wiping at his wet cheeks now that his mother is out of the room, he has the immediate urge to call Eddie. To talk to him, to hear him laugh, to hear him say it’s all gonna be okay, loser. But he can’t do that anymore. He can’t communicate with Eddie at all. Eddie doesn’t want him to, he’s sure of it.

So Richie does what he always does when he can’t find the words to say: he makes a mixtape. Except, this time, he does so with one idea in mind: to talk to Eddie.

This mixtape, he realizes as he gets up and starts rooting through his records, has got to be the perfect representation of everything he’s feeling, everything he’s been thinking the best three weeks. He gets out a piece of paper from his notebook and starts writing down song ideas, crossing them out angrily when he realizes the lyrics aren’t perfect enough. He needs the tape to tell a story, start to finish. He needs Eddie to listen to him. He needs Eddie to hear him, really hear him, in the only way he feels he is allowed to be heard at this point.

Music has always been an important tool for Richie, but ever since Valentine’s Day, he feels stifled in the art of making a tape for anyone, including himself. He’s terrified he’s going to fuck up again. Music is too powerful. But music in general is an escape from his real life. It’s not hurting himself or anybody else so long as he does it in the privacy of his own room. But now with the tape in his hands that he knows will go to Eddie, he’s never been more glad to have a distraction in his life. He certainly needs it. He hopes that this doesn’t blow up in his face the way Stanley’s had.

But every song makes him think of Eddie. Every love song, every break up song, every song with an odd bass line that he thinks Eddie would just go crazy for. He keeps wishing he could simply make Eddie a mixtape of all the great songs he’s found since they stopped talking. But this is better. This is far better. As he listens to his worn copy of the record _The Queen Is Dead_ by The Smiths, he realizes that Eddie will care. He’ll have to care. If they’re still friends, he’s going to have to care.

As he writes down the track listing as neatly as he can on an index card, tears having been welled up in his eyes for the last hour, he has the distinct feeling that Eddie will hear him.

 

* * *

 

Eddie opens his locker at the end of the school day Tuesday to get his History textbook out of his locker. He sighs as he unhooks his backpack from over his shoulder and looks around. The final bell has just rung and everyone is meeting up with their friends in the hallways, discussing how chilly it is out, how hard their latest Algebra test was: the dumb things Eddie used to discuss with his friends. His old friends, he should say. Because it’s been three weeks and he hasn’t heard a word from any of them.

He looks back at his locker, clean as a whistle after having taken down all the photographs Mike had given him of the Losers and hidden them in his desk drawer at home. He takes out his textbook and frowns, noticing a tape inside it. He doesn’t remember leaving a tape in there - he never brings his Walkman to school for fear of it getting broken - and he takes it out, examining it. He opens it, the label being blank, and as soon as he recognizes Richie’s messy, familiar handwriting on the index card inside, his heart all but stops dead in his chest.

He shoves his locker closed and runs into the nearest bathroom, closing and locking the stall door. He stands in the empty stall, bathroom silent except for the muffled and fading noises of people leaving the school, and he reads what’s written on the notecard. It’s simply the song titles, nothing more, nothing less. He looks at the writing and he can tell Richie tried his damnedest to make the small letters legible for Eddie. His frown deepens, cocking his head at the tape cradled gently in his shaking hands, wondering why Richie didn’t write descriptions or explanations to the songs like he always does when giving someone a mixtape. He doesn’t know any of the songs except _Tainted Love_ by Soft Cell, but his heart skips a beat at the title he sees towards the beginning of the tape. _I Can’t Make You Love Me_. He closes his eyes briefly, trying to compose himself. Those words are on loop in his brain. _I can’t make you love me, I can’t make you love me,_ he thinks over and over, unable to convince himself that this just a game, a joke, to Richie. He wonders why he doesn’t recognize the Queen song, searching his brain for the lyrics to it, but coming up empty. He opens his eyes back up and closes the tape back up and stares at the blank cover.

 _Why didn’t he name it?_ he thinks desperately, racking his brain for reasoning. Richie always titles his mixes. Always. They’re always silly and overly-long, but he names them anyway. This one? Nothing. Blank. Empty. Did he even care to name it? He did all the work to sneak into Eddie’s locker, all of them knowing each other’s locker combinations for convenience in case one of their lockers was closer to their classrooms than their assigned one. Eddie has had to use his own a lot more in the last three weeks than ever he has before in this school.

He carefully puts the tape in the front pouch of his backpack so it won’t get hurt in transit, zipping it shut so it won’t fall out, and runs out of the bathroom and all the way to where his mother is waiting in the parking lot for him like she has been every day since Richie’s party. He used to bike home with all his friends, but now his mother drives him home. He tries to ignore how smug she is that none of his friends come around anymore.

“Eddie Bear!” she shouts when he hops into the station wagon. “You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep running like that! What have I told you about running?”

“That it causes asthma and deadly injuries, especially in children,” he says sourly, chest heaving as she turns the car on.

“That’s right, Eddie. You’re delicate. You have to be careful.” He looks out the window and sees Greta Bowie snicker as she walks by his mother’s car. He surreptitiously flicks her off through the window. She doesn’t notice, but it feels good anyway.

“Yes, Mommy.” He’s mostly on autopilot, thinking only of the song titles on the tape in his backpack that he has clutched to his chest now. It doesn’t take them long to get home and when they do, Eddie bounds up the stairs, calling to his mother that he has a lot of homework to get done, shutting the door and locking it behind him. He grabs his Walkman off of his shelf, the tape out of his bag, and dumps them both onto his bed. He looks at them and then slowly, with a shaking gait, opens the tape deck and inserts the tape. He waits to press PLAY until he’s laying down, headphones situated, staring at Richie’s handwriting and shivering in anticipation from head to toe. Only then does he press PLAY.

Richie usually does recorded introductions to all his mixes, but it simply goes straight into _Save Me_ and Eddie finds himself intensely disappointed that he doesn’t get to hear Richie’s voice. Eddie recognizes the first song immediately, the Queen song, from how many times Richie has told him how Freddie Mercury is the perfect specimen of man. Was. Was the perfect specimen of man. Eddie feels the man’s death heavy like a weight around him all over again, remembering the way he died, the tragedy that rocked their whole circle of friends, especially Beverly and Richie. Eddie can barely even think about Freddie now without tearing up, let alone hear one of his songs, and he begins weeping after the second verse. Freddie is singing about wondering if all that love was wasted, about loving someone until he dies. It rests like breezeblocks on top of Eddie, holding him down, knowing Freddie must’ve been singing about a man.

The next song is The Smiths. Eddie remembers Richie describing them as ‘the saddest band that’s also the easiest to love.’ Eddie can see that as the soft guitar causes him to drift. His daydreams last until the final chorus comes through his headphones.

 _So for once in my life_  
_Let me get what I want_  
_Lord knows it would be the first time_  
_Lord knows it would be the first time_

And as the song fades out, Eddie is momentarily glad that the song is so short and that he missed the rest of it because the words he did catch were so devastating. Is this what Richie is thinking? What does he want? Eddie starts to tense up again as he looks at the next title. _I Can’t Make You Love Me_ by Bonnie Raitt is written is Richie’s scrawl. And it hurts. Every lyric of this song has him in tears, from just hold me close, don’t patronize me to you can’t make your heart feel something it won’t. Tears are streaming down his face freely and pooling by his headphones as he listens to this soft, tragic love song. Eddie wonders if this mixtape is a story. All of the mixes Richie’s ever made that Eddie knows of have meant something to him. He remembers Richie’s Heartbreaker Haul, a mixtape made when Beverly got asked out by one of the goons in Henry Bowers’ pack and she had to turn him down, and Richie’s mix that he had given to Ben when he had initiated him into their group. The boy takes music so seriously, takes the art of making and giving a mixtape so seriously, and Eddie knows that this isn’t just any mixtape. This is a story.

_Morning will come and I'll do what's right  
Just give me ‘til then to give up this fight_

Eddie grabs a tissue from his nightstand and wipes his face violently, blowing his nose. He’s so glad there’s a long outro to this song, because he needs a while to compose himself until the next one, which is luckily the only one he’s familiar with, and also the jauntiest song on the mix thus far. But then he realizes that this song is angry. It’s so, so angry. He feels paralyzed, overcome with emotion as he listens to what Richie’s really thinking about him right now.

 _Once, I ran to you_  
_Now, I'll run from you_  
_This tainted love you've given_  
_I give you all a boy could give you_  
_Take my tears and that's not nearly all_

Eddie sobs hard, body-wracking sobs as the song plays on, Soft Cell mocking him with lyrics like _I love you, though you hurt me so, now I’m gonna pack my things and go._ He realizes, fuck, he’s really, really hurt Richie. This isn’t on anyone but Eddie. That horrible fight they had at the party… Eddie escalated it, completely eviscerated Richie’s heart by saying what he said. He remembers _I could never be with you, Tozier,_ on a loudspeaker in his head, overpowering the music for a moment.

The song fades out as he’s thinking and the next has lyrics like so much to mention but you can’t find the words. The whole song is begging someone to listen to themselves before they leave someone. He’s not sure if Richie is begging Eddie to listen to himself or if Richie is simply talking to himself for this track, but it hurts all the same. He thinks of both scenarios - either one points him in a direction he’s very scared to go in.

Another song by The Smiths plays next and Eddie smiles down at Richie’s handwriting briefly, laughing quietly at Richie’s current obsession, before the lyrics start to register.

_When you walk without ease  
On these streets where you were raised_

Eddie frowns, thinking of Richie completely alone. He knows Richie’s greatest fear is abandonment and being left behind (though he always hails otherwise - a solid distraction tactic for those who aren’t paying close attention) and he realizes that that’s exactly what he’s done by ignoring him like this: abandon him. He’s not sure if Richie’s even talking to any of the rest of the group; Eddie knows he himself hasn’t spoken to any of them since the party. _I hate to intrude, oh, I’m alone_ plays through his tinny headphones and Eddie cries for Richie, for how hard this must be on him. Eddie knows it hasn’t been easy to live in his own house, having no reprieve from his mother, but Richie has not only his mother’s neglect, but his sister’s constant abuse as well. Eddie’s been so selfish.

But it’s the next song that has him shaking so hard, he drops the tape cover and it clatters onto the Walkman resting on his stomach. It sounds familiar, something his mother might’ve listened to on the radio that he’d tuned out as a kid maybe. But it has him gasping for air as the chorus hits.

 _And we'll only be making it right_  
_'Cause we'll never be wrong together_  
_We can take it to the end of the line_  
_Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time_

It makes Eddie smile despite himself, the glimmer of hope throughout the mix. The whole tape is so dark and hurt and angry, but this song is talking about someone who wants to keep trying, keep working for something hard and potentially dangerous to the both of them. There’s heartbreaking lyrics, of course. Once upon a time there was light in my life, now there’s only love in the dark. But as Bonnie Tyler begs the object of her affections to turn around so they can face the dark together, Eddie realizes that Richie did in fact tell a story. There is still hope. There is hope for them both. There’s hope still left in their story.

 _(Turn around)_  
_Every now and then I know you’ll never be the boy you always wanted to be_  
_Every now and then I know you’ll always be the only boy who wanted me the way that I am_  
_Every now and then I know there’s no one in the universe as magical and wondrous as you_  
_Every now and then I know there’s nothing any better and nothing that I just wouldn’t do_

But then he remembers that there’s still one song left.

It starts off throwing Eddie straight into the deep end of a language he doesn’t understand at all. He recognizes it as French and scrambles to pick up the cover of the tape again, reading the words he wrote over and over. _Ne Me Quitte Pas. Ne Me Quitte Pas._ What could they mean? God, the song sounds so damn sad, so tragic and heartbroken that Eddie feels all the hope he had from the last song drain out of him even though he doesn’t have any idea what Nina Simone is even saying. He realizes trying to translate a language he knows a total of zero words of is a futile attempt, and he angrily sits up and tosses the tape cover to the foot of his bed. Why did Richie have to do this? He knows Eddie takes Spanish. He knows Eddie is terrible at languages in general, even English. He knows this would confuse the ever living shit out of him. Fuck Richie Tozier. Fuck him and his confusing mixtape.

Nina croons a desperate, heartbroken ending and as Eddie sits in silence, he finds himself taking the headphones off, going downstairs and grabbing the phone. He brings it upstairs quietly so his mother doesn’t hear him and dials one of the most familiar string of numbers he knows, even now.

“Hello?”

“Bev?” Eddie asks meekly. “It’s me. Eddie. Do you think you could come over? And bring your French textbook?”

Beverly laughs, and it sounds so much like being home in a way that Eddie hasn’t felt in weeks that he feels tears spill over his cheeks once again. “Of course, hon. Always.”

  
Beverly rings the doorbell an hour later and Eddie jumps up from his place on his bed, waiting for her. Eddie bounds out of his room and down the stairs.

“I’ll get it!” he shouts.

“Eddie Bear, don’t run like that! You’ll slip and fall and crack your head open,” his mother chides from her place, unmoving, in the living room’s recliner.

“Yes, Mommy!” he responds with a bit of excitement. He skids to a stop at the doorway and breathes out slowly, steeling himself, before opening it with a smile.

“Hi, Eddie,” Beverly says mildly, holding up her French textbook. “Brought the… supplies?”

“Right, right, thank you so much. Um, let’s go to my room.” He ushers her inside and quickly past his mother.

“Who is it, Eddie Bear?”

“Beverly, Mommy.” Sonia grunts in response and says nothing more and he takes that as permission to take her up to his room. He waves his hand towards the stairs and points up them. Beverly smiles ruefully.

“I’ve been here before, Eds.” Eddie nods sharply, looking away.

“Right.” They ascend the staircase and enter Eddie’s room. Eddie closes the door behind them before letting out a sigh.

“Damn, Kaspbrak, you look a sight for sore eyes,” she says mildly. She didn’t want to admit that in front of Sonia, not wanting her to have any dirt of Eddie at all, but she only speaks what she sees. Eddie’s hair is a wreck, like he’s been running his fingers through it over and over, he’s got bags under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days, and his eyes are bloodshot, a clear sign that he’s cried recently. Beverly frowns and takes a step closer to him. “What happened, Eddie?”

Eddie points to his bed. “That.” Beverly looks and sees his Walkman and headphones splayed out at the foot of the bed haphazardly, as if he’d thrown them both off his head in a fit of emotion.

“And what is that exactly?” Eddie walks over and takes out the tape and hands it to Beverly. “It’s blank.”

“Exactly,” Eddie emphasises, eyes wide.

“Okay, cuckoo, you’re really not making any -- ” Eddie thrusts the cover at her and Beverly cradles it carefully as soon as she sees a glimpse of Richie’s handwriting on the index card inside. “...sense.” Eddie is quiet as Beverly looks over the card’s contents. The word _love_ comes up three times just in the titles alone and Beverly’s eyes widen. _God, Rich, you’re really goin’ for it,_ she thinks. She’s tried hard not to think about Richie these past few weeks, but when she looks back up at Eddie who has his hands on his hips, she finds herself hoping that it isn’t too late for them.

“Yeah. Are you seeing the last song?” Eddie asks, a hint of annoyance in his tone. Beverly nods, glancing back down.

“Nina Simone, I know the song well,” she responds.

“Good. Do you think you could possibly…” He suddenly looks nervous. “...translate it for me?” Beverly opens her mouth to answer, brows knitting in concern, but Eddie barrels on. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but maybe you can use it for a French paper one day! How I Helped An Old Friend Figure Out This Wild Fucking Goose Chase.”

“Okay, first off, you’re not an ‘old friend,’” Beverly answers, clearly very upset at Eddie’s language use. “You’re a current friend. And, second, don’t you think this is a bit… personal?” She looks back down at the titles. _Tainted Love_ is a song she and Richie have danced to together, alone in her bedroom at her aunt’s with the stereo blaring, and she knows how pained he sounded when he sang out that song’s lyrics; this was meant for Eddie and Eddie alone.

“He knows I don’t speak French, Bev,” Eddie exclaims, arms flying out beside him in confusion. He begins to pace. “I don’t know what else he expected me to do but enlist help.”

“Learn a new language?” Beverly tries with a forced smile. Eddie stops walking for a moment to glare at her before continuing his track around the room. It’s such an Eddie thing to do and she’s missed her friend so much in only the few weeks that she hasn’t seen him that her forced smile becomes genuine and affectionate before falling off her face completely when she notices the rigid line of his spine. God, this is turning him inside out, Beverly thinks. He really does care. “Alright,” Beverly relents. Eddie turns with a gleeful expression on his face. “I’ll help you.”

“Yay!” Eddie cheers, clapping his hands and jumping in place. “Oh, thank you, Beverly. I promise, you won’t -- ”

“Regret it?” She sighs, looking down at Richie’s scrawl that he tried so hard to make legible. “Yeah. I hope not.”

Beverly settles on the bed as Eddie goes downstairs to get her a glass of water after she told him there are a lot of words to this song and she’d be there for a while. She sighs, slipping the headphones on and pressing PLAY. Eddie had been listening to _Total Eclipse Of the Heart_ before she got there, unsurprisingly to Beverly. She knows every song on this mix, her and Richie having a similar taste in music, and she knows that song has the most hope out of them all, very much including _Ne Me Quitte Pas_. She takes out a sheet of paper as she skips forward, not wanting to have to listen to all of Richie’s deepest thoughts right now. She writes ‘Don’t Leave Me’ on the top of the sheet before letting out a long, slow breath.

She still sees Richie every other day in French class, but the two of them haven’t spoken a word to each other. Richie is always seen slumped over his desk, doodling and zoning out completely. She knows that Richie is smarter than anyone in that class and could translate anything the teacher throws at him without hesitation, but she’s sure his grades are slipping even more than they were in the fall because he isn’t handing in any papers when their teacher asks for them. Beverly wishes she could reach out to him, to tell him that Eddie cares, that she cares, that Bill has forgiven him entirely, but she can’t.

The truth is, Beverly is hurt. She needs an apology, if she’s honest. Bill has always been more able to handle Richie Tozier than she could. Richie is one of her best friends on this stupid earth and that will never change. Beverly is certain of that. However, Bill has known Richie for much longer, and due to this, he can handle him at his very worst. Beverly expected more out of him. Richie didn’t know about her aversion to the name he used at the party, Bevvy, and she can’t expect him to; she’s never fully and completely talked to anyone except her therapist, to a certain degree, her aunt, and to an even lesser degree, Bill and Eddie, about what her father did to her. She knows she needs to explain herself to the group. She knows they deserve an explanation; they’ve been there for her for so long, all of them, including and especially Richie. Richie has been a friend to her and she has been a confidant to him. He needs to know why she reacted so violently that night when he uttered the name she’s spent years trying to erase from her memory, trying to forget who Alvin Marsh tried to make her into. She was never Bevvy and she wouldn’t let anybody make her be that girl now. Richie was drunk and hitting on her and the combination of the two with the name hanging in the air on that already tense night spun her undone. Regardless, Richie wasn’t trying to be her father and would never, ever be her father. No, only Alvin could be her father and that man was long since dead and buried.

Eddie enters the room as Beverly fishes around the tape, trying to find the beginning of the Nina Simone song, and he puts a glass of water down for her on his nightstand wordlessly. She nods at him in gratitude as he sits down next to her, fiddling with his hands, feet hanging off the sides of the bed and swinging lightly. She nods again, this time to herself, and presses PLAY. Then STOP. Then PLAY again. Over and over she does this, continuously rewinding the tape bit by bit if she misses parts.

As she writes, she realizes that Richie is a lot of things. Richie Tozier is a hopeless romantic. Richie Tozier is lonely. Richie Tozier is scared. Richie Tozier is brave as all hell for making this tape. Richie Tozier is a _fucking asshole_ for making her cry from miles away.

 _Forget the time_  
_The misunderstandings_  
_And the time that was lost_  
_Trying to understand how_  
_These hours can be forgotten_  
_Those that are killing sometimes_  
_With whys that hurt like punches_  
_The heart of happiness_

“What’s she saying here?” Eddie asks quietly as Beverly’s hand hovers over the paper and she listens. She just manages to hear him over the music and she sighs, writing the words _don’t leave me_ over and over again as her tears fall onto the paper and smearing the ink from her favorite pen. Eddie’s breath catches in his throat. Don’t leave me. That’s what Richie is begging over and over again, for Eddie not to leave him. Eddie remembers all the times Richie walked him home or dropped him off at his house on his bike even though it was out of the way from his own. He always said goodbye last, and Eddie thought it was him just trying to get the last word, but maybe, Eddie is realizing, he was trying to get him to stay.

 _I will work the earth_  
_Until I die_  
_To cover your body_  
_With gold and light_  
_I will create a kingdom for you_  
_Where love will be the king_  
_Where love will be the law_  
_Where you will be the queen_

As Beverly continues to write, wiping at her tears quickly with the back of her wrist, Eddie remembers Richie calling him _beautiful boy,_ a moment just for them. Eddie vaguely remembers calling Richie the same thing when he was drunk three weeks ago before vomiting into his toilet, just bile and regret. That time, Richie was not there to push his hair back and tell him he wasn’t dirty, and Eddie sunk into a state of anxiety, scrubbing every inch of the bathroom he could, body loose and sloppy from the alcohol. He did not see any of his friends at school after sleeping off his hangover all weekend, avoiding all of them out of a mixture of fear and embarrassment. But he sees some of them in classes before he slips out as soon as the bell rings, and that includes Richie. When Eddie dares to look up, Richie is despondent and depressed in his seat. But he is always ever so beautiful, effortlessly and carelessly so, even with his unwashed hair and his ever-present frown, etched into his skin like marble.

Eddie reads what Beverly’s written: _I will invent for you meaningless words that you will understand._ He smiles wistfully. Maybe Richie never meant to confuse Eddie at all; maybe he had just meant to speak from the heart, and this was what was in it.

 _Let me become_  
_The shadow of your soul  
The shadow of your hand_

Beverly presses STOP as she finishes and puts down her pen, shaking out her hand violently in front of her.

“Thank you,” Eddie mutters. Beverly looks over at him and slips the headphones off.

“For?” Eddie shrugs and gestures to the paper. “Oh, Eddie, I’d do anything for you. You know that, right?”

“Even after… everything at the party?” Eddie winces as he says this. He knows that the events of the party hit Beverly hardest - she had Richie flirting with her in an unconsented manner and then say the very thing that would hurt her the most: that name. Eddie has been wondering how she’s doing, but his own anxiety has had him so wrapped up in knots that he couldn’t reach out to anyone before today. He’s been stuck inside his house with his mother who not only increases his psychosomatic afflictions but shoves them down his throat, making him take drugs he knows are placebos and hits from an inhaler he knows has no real medicinal qualities to it, just water and camphor. He’s succumbed once again to the lies his mother has forced on him since his father’s death. He feels weak.

“Even after the party. Eddie, you defended me. I mean, I’m not 100% pleased with how you treated Richie…” she admits, looking away briefly, and Eddie looks away as well, eyes filling up with tears once again. “But I think this,” Beverly gestures to the paper she’s writing on, “is proof enough that he’ll forgive you of anything. Any of us will, Eddie. We’re friends.”

“I thought we were just plain bad for each other.” Eddie sours, referencing Beverly’s words from the party that night.

“After this…” she whispers, shaking her head, tracing the words don’t leave me. She looks back up, eyes fierce. Eddie feels bowled over by all of it: Beverly’s fire, Richie’s foreign plea, the haunting presence of the party looming over them all. It all feels like too much. “Even I can be wrong sometimes.” She looks back up at him and says two words that they both know they’ll cling to for months to come:

“Have hope.”

 

* * *

 

Ben cannot remember the last time he ate a proper meal, and he cannot find it in himself to care much about it either. His stomach is flipping, overcome with the sort of nausea one only feels when they’re over-hungry, that terrible aching and twisting followed by just a feeling of emptiness. Ben isn’t making a conscious choice not to eat, no - he just can’t really be bothered.

Usually a pretty fast kid, he’s lagging behind in gym class today as the juniors barrel past him, circling the track outdoors. He feels like he’s wearing concrete sneakers, like he is moving in slow-motion in a world that is flying by, uncaring that he cannot keep up.

 _“Hanscom, move it!”_ Mr. McNamara bellows from where he’s standing at the center of the track, his sunglasses still on his face despite the sun having disappeared behind the clouds twenty minutes ago.

Ben hears the boys around him begin to snicker, some of them turning around to look at him as he struggles to catch up to them, and he thinks he hates Mr. McNamara. Ben does not like or want to hate anyone, but he hates him. He hates him for drawing attention to the fact that he’s the slowest boy in the class and he wants to sink into the turf beneath his feet, to disappear just like the sun.

 _“Let’s go, Hanscom, ya don’t have all day!”_ the gym teacher crows and he wants to scream back at him. He thinks he might have if he could speak at all, but his chest is growing tight and he can hardly suck in enough air to keep moving, let alone say anything. Instead, he grits his teeth and forces himself to push on, ignoring the shrieking of his calf muscles as he runs and hoping now that McNamara will lay off of him.

He should have known better.

 _“Looks like Hanscom saw an ice cream truck drivin’ by!”_ he cries and the other students howl with laughter, some of them having to halt in their jogging to brace their hands on their knees as the sheer force of it causes them to double over in half. A few of them flop to the ground, rolling as they cackle, and Ben feels tears sting his eyes as he continues to run, wanting to get as far away from the noise as he can. He draws closer and closer to McNamara and he can see his sneering face, shrouded in darkness from the Derry Central viser on his head. “What d’ya think you’re some sort of track star now, Hanscom?”

Ben skids to a halt, sending little pebbles flying when his sneakers drag across the ground beneath him, and he pants for a moment, glaring up at the gym teacher as sweat pours into his eyes, the salt burning them.

“Got something to say?” McNamara prompts, folding his arms across his chest.

“Could be,” is all Ben manages to choke out, and McNamara’s brow furrows.

“What was that, Hanscom?” he hisses, leaning towards him, and even then he still towers over him. Ben squares his shoulders and looks purposefully back at him.

“Track star. Could be,” Ben breathes, still winded, but gaining more control over it the longer he stands there. McNamara’s eyebrows appear over the top of his sunglasses and he grins menacingly as he begins to laugh - a low, wicked laugh that chills Ben to the bone.

“You think I’d let someone like you on my team? You’re dreaming, fat boy.” Ben looks McNamara up and down once before folding his own arms over his chest and giving him a curt nod.

“ _Will_ be.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Beverly invites Ben to come to the Barrens after school with her and Bill, he doesn’t know what to say. He stands there at his locker, the door hanging open along with his mouth, while Beverly waits for his response. Her hands are tucked into the pockets of her overalls as if being out of sight means Ben can’t tell that they’re shaking.

“You -- you want me to come with you guys?” Ben sputters, reaching to place his Chemistry textbook on the shelf and missing it entirely. Neither of them flinch when it crashes to the floor with an unceremonious thud. Beverly does huff out a quiet laugh, though, and Ben suddenly feels much more at ease.

“Of course we do,” she says simply. “You’re our friend.” And Ben’s mouth snaps shut like a bear trap then, stifling the beginnings of a choked sob he could feel brewing at the back of his throat. He feels like whole lifetimes have passed since Richie’s birthday party, and he hasn’t had contact with any of the group since that night. Sure, on rare occasions he’ll spot one of them in the library working on an assignment while he’s there volunteering, having picked up his old position from summertime, or maybe he and Mike will pass one another on their bike rides through town, but he has yet to buck up enough nerve to approach any of them, especially Beverly. Maybe we’re just plain bad for each other. He didn’t think it was a wild assumption to have that they weren’t friends anymore, but hearing that thought be contradicted so plainly, and with such a tender, genuine look in her eyes, it is everything Ben has in him not to collapse in this hallway at Beverly’s feet.

“Oh,” is all he can manage to get out without running the risk of his voice beginning to tremble.

“Oh? That’s all I get?” she teases, and as he watches a lazy smirk slide onto her face, Ben suddenly aches for the way things were before, would give anything for it to be summer again, for all of them to be scampering off to the Barrens after her and Bill, always following their lead. “C’mon, Hanscom, don’t leave a girl hangin’...” she pleads, and there’s something deep in her eyes that looks remarkably like dread, like a refusal from Ben might literally kill her where she stands, and so Ben nods.

“Okay,” he breathes, still nodding, and Beverly’s face brightens considerably as she rocks forward onto her toes, bringing her clasped hands up to her chest and letting out a muffled squeal through her smiling teeth. “Yeah, I’ll go with you guys…” Beverly throws her arms around him in a fierce hug, resting her chin comfortably on his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around her like a lifeline, patting her back sweetly.

“Cool,” she says plainly, like she wasn’t ever worried he would say no, and Ben chuckles into her curls. “Meet Billy and I by the basketball court after the bell, okay?” He nods, still holding her to his chest, but he lets her go the moment she starts to pull back, his arms dropping to swing at his sides. They share a smile, and for a moment, Ben pretends like everything is fine.

“You got it.”

  
It does not take long for Ben to accept that this little outing with Bill and Beverly is not going to be what he expected.

It’s none of their faults, he knows, but as they stalk through the Barrens, ducking to avoid low-hanging branches in their path, he realizes just how much of a gaping hole the absence of the other members of their rag-tag team has left behind. Ben falls back a bit as the couple crosses the slow-moving river, balancing on some rocks that jut out from the surface, and Bill catches Beverly’s elbow when she wobbles a bit after trying to leap from one rock to another. She smiles up at him and then turns back to find Ben, urging him to follow after them. He was always going to, but the conscious effort to include him then makes him smile down at the dirty toes of his sneakers, makes him remember that rainy day last summer when Beverly and Mike had traveled all the way to his house to bring him along to the group gathering at Stanley’s.

He feels a sharp pang in his chest when he thinks of Stanley, remembering how the last time he’d seen the boy was at Richie’s birthday party, and they had barely even spoken. He thinks Stanley must have been embarrassed by what had happened on Valentine’s Day, but Ben wishes he could have told him that he shouldn’t be, that it was a reasonable enough reaction, and that Richie is an idiot but that’s why they all love him. He thinks about the way Stanley might have laughed at that last bit, might have let his gaze flicker fondly in Richie’s direction, a touch of forgiveness in his eyes, and maybe then they’d all be here in the Barrens now. Ben wishes more than anything that that were true, that his overwhelming urge to help could actually do some fucking good for once. He makes it to the opposite side of the river where the couple stands waiting for him and finds Bill peering at him with a look of deep concern.

“You okay, B-B-Ben?” he wonders, and Ben nods quickly, hoping the smile he forces onto his face is enough to satisfy the other boy. Bill gives him a quick once-over, almost like he doesn’t believe him, but he doesn’t press the issue; instead, he takes hold of Beverly’s hand and starts walking again, kicking pebbles gently as they move along. Ben wonders if he should tell the two of them about McNamara’s taunts, about how he runs every night now, blood boiling with more spite than either of them probably think he is capable of, but he decides not to. He doesn’t want them to worry, even though he is not blind and can see the way they’re looking at him, at the slight but definitely noticeable difference in his face. He remembers the way Beverly had winced when she hugged him when they’d met up after school let out, like she could feel how much weight he’s dropped in the last few weeks. He hopes they won’t worry too much over him, but knows deep down that they will.

Beverly coos when she spots a bundle of flowers starting to bloom near a hollowed out tree trunk that must have fallen over during a storm; it is covered in moss and mushrooms, its branches reaching out towards the three of them like limbs, threatening to snatch them up, but Beverly only has eyes for the tiny dots of color she sees nestled in the vast vegetation, the little flecks of yellow and purple petals that she thumbs gently, careful not to damage them. Ben is mesmerized by them, too, his mind wandering until he finds himself back in the garden on the Hanlon Farm, the garden that had belonged to Mike’s mother that the boy still tends to religiously, documenting all of the different flowers with his camera. He has a whole album dedicated to the different flowers he’s planted since his parents passed away, and he had showed it to Ben one day when he had run into the boy on his way out of the store in town where he gets his film developed. Ben looks down at the flowers growing at his feet, and he misses Mike Hanlon so terribly, it almost takes his breath away.

Bill has walked a little up the way, eyes trained to the sky, and so he does not see the tangled root of a nearby tree jutting out from the earth at his feet until he trips right over it, his hands breaking his fall at the last minute.

 _“Shit,”_ he huffs, dusting himself off and popping quickly to his feet, cheeks tinted pink as Ben and Beverly dart over to make sure he’s alright. Beverly takes one of his hands tenderly in hers and examines the small cut to his palm; it is superficial, but it still bleeds a little bit.

“Think he’ll survive?” Ben jokes, and Beverly shoves him playfully.

“Beep beep, Richie,” she says without looking up from Bill’s hand, and the air around them is suddenly frigid. “I mean --” she starts, eyes closing as she sighs, “shit…” She resides to tending to Bill’s hand again, and Bill smiles sadly, the same painful ache in his heart as he too misses their friends. “Wish we had a bandaid…”

“Wh-Where’s Eds when you need him?” Bill whispers, and Beverly’s lip starts to shake.

“We do need him, don’t we?” she asks wetly, blinking away tears as she looks between the two boys. Both nod, saying nothing, not really knowing what to say that will be of any help, and Beverly is fucking worried. She’s worried about all of them, of course, but none so much as Eddie. Jesus, the boy comes out to her right before the party in March, and then there’s been nothing but radio silence after that explosive argument with Richie that left the rest of them tattered and frayed in its wake. One phone call to Beverly and she was by his side in an instant. But she hasn’t heard from him since. None of them have.

She wants to reach out to Eddie, to all of them, but she only has two hands and she doesn’t know how to stop them from shaking anymore. Bill squeezes one of them with his fingers when he feels it trembling, being mindful not to get any of his blood on her, and Beverly looks up at Ben, fixing him with a soft but determined look.

“Ben, what do we do?” Beverly breathes, voice feather-light, and Ben meets Bill’s patient gaze, stunned into complete silence as the pair he’s so often looked to for guidance wait for him to answer. He thinks of Stanley again, of everything he wishes he had said to him, and he squares his shoulders.

“We fix it.”

 

* * *

 

Ben’s textbooks clatter to the table across from where Stanley is sitting alone, but the other boy doesn’t even look up from the pen he’s twirling around in his hands, and so Ben uses this opportunity to speak, fearing that if he doesn’t get everything out in one shot, he never will.

“Hey, buddy,” he says simply, voice pitched high and shrill due to his nerves, and Stanley’s brow quirks questionably, but still he does not lift his gaze from the tabletop. “You know, I was thinkin’, might be warm enough to get a ball game goin’ after school today...”

“Are you fucking cracked?” Stanley suddenly pipes up before he can stop himself. “It’s windy out. The ball would be all over the place and we’d spend more time chasing it down than actually playing!” His voice is raspy, possibly from lack of use, but Ben smiles just the same at the sound, glad to know that in spite of the mess they’ve all found themselves in, Stanley Uris’ fierce sportsmanship has survived, like a relic from a lost time. Stanley flushes suddenly, and his hands begin to twitch, nearly dropping his pen. “Besides… couldn’t get much of a game going with two people, anyway...”

“How about four?” Ben suggests lightly, nudging the other boy’s foot under the table with his own, and Stanley shrugs mutely in response. “You, me, Bill, and Bev? C’mon, Uris - what do you say?” he prompts, knowing he is in danger of sounding desperate but not really caring enough to try to conceal it. He wants Stanley to know that he misses him, that he still wants him around, and he hopes desperately that that is enough. _It should be enough,_ Ben thinks. _It has to be enough._

“Bill and Bev really wanna play, too?” Stanley croaks, and Ben’s eyes soften as he nods slowly.

“Yeah, pal… Yeah, they do…” he promises, and Stanley says nothing. “Game at 3:30?” The bell signalling the end of study hall cuts through the chatter of their surrounding classmates, and there is a collective groan as they all gather up their things and file out of the library and back into the hallway to finish out their day. Stanley gets to his feet and tosses his untouched bottle of water into the nearest garbage can. He looks back at Ben, their eyes meeting for the the first time, and Ben needs to stifle a gasp when he sees the dark circles around the other boy’s eyes, the thin, almost hollow look of his face. Ben feels for a moment like he’s looking up at a ghost.

“Last one to the lot buys lunch.”

  
When Stanley arrives at the sandlot after school, his baseball bat slung over his shoulder, he finds Ben and Beverly sitting cross-legged by the tent they’ve pitched just behind home base. Ben sees him first and offers him a kind smile as Beverly looks up from where she had been tracing her finger in the dirt, her eyes landing on the boy towering over them.

“Stanley,” she breathes, clambering quickly to her feet, and she tosses her arms around his shoulders, stretching onto the very tips of her toes so she can rest her head on the boy’s shoulder. She tries not to wince when she notes how thin he looks, thinner even than usual, but when her hand runs along his spine and she feels bone jutting out against her palm, her insides flip. Stanley freezes for a moment in her arms, shocked by her sudden and unabashed rush of affection for him, but eventually he hugs her back, patting the space between her shoulder-blades cautiously. “I -- I’m glad you came.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles as he shrugs, and he pulls away from her embrace to lean his bat against the side of the tent. “I told Ben it was too cold for a game, but he wouldn’t listen.” Ben holds his hands up.

“Guilty,” he relents. “Guess I just wanted a chance to smoke you on the field, Uris…”

“Th-Those sound like fighting w-w-words,” Bill’s voice suddenly sounds from behind them, and Stanley shoves his hands quickly into the pockets of his windbreaker before kicking at a rock half-heartedly, eyes trained at his toes. “Hey…” he whispers, eyes softening as he watches Stanley curl a little further inward, like a turtle retreating into its shell, and Bill thinks he might cry. He has never known any of his friends to shy away from him, least of all Stanley, and watching it happen right before his eyes is almost unbearable. “It’s g-g-good to see you, p-pal…” Bill raises his hand to touch Stanley’s shoulder, but then freezes and lets his hand drop back to his side. Stanley does smile a little at that though, and Bill latches onto that like a life-preserver, clinging to it for all its worth. The smiles of his friends have always been worth more than gold to Bill Denbrough. “Sh-Should be a good game now that you’re h-here…”

Beverly nods insistently, smiling at Stanley as well. He picks up the bat again, looking to Ben.

“You swingin’ first, Hanscom?”

  
Stanley is right. It is incredibly cold, they do spend more time chasing after the ball when the wind sweeps it in all the wrong directions once it leaves someone’s hand, and they find out that it is fucking impossible to play baseball with four people.

Despite all of this, Stanley cannot help but feel his spirits lifting; it’s only a slight uptick, a barely noticeable change, and he knows that it’s limited, fragile, but it’s there and he’s going to hold onto it for as long as he can, whether it has any merit or not. There’s this sinking feeling he cannot seem to shake, this ever-looming threat that Ben only invited him to the sandlot because he feels bad for him, that Beverly and Bill don’t actually miss him. Somewhere deep inside himself, Stanley can acknowledge the irrationality of that thought, of the idea that these people, that these four don’t actually care about him. He knows that he knows better, but the part of him that’s capable of rational thinking has since gone dormant, inching further and further into the darker corners of his mind ever since winter break, since Bill and Beverly fell together and everyone else fell apart.

“Nice play!” Beverly lies right through her damn teeth when Ben rounds the bases yet again. She is in her usual spot on the pitcher’s mound. Bill is still chasing after the ball where it had bounced to the edge of the lot, rolling almost into the street but getting caught on the wheel of his bike where it’s resting against the fence. He snatches it up and tosses it back to Beverly just as Stanley takes his bat in his hands, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he plants his feet on home plate and fixes his eyes on Beverly’s hands. He is used to her pitches, to the subtle way she curves the ball; he has never underestimated her arm, and he never will, but even for all of her skill, she has never thrown a ball that Stanley couldn’t hit.

He watches her wind up, making the motion look more fluid than even a professional ball player might, and soon the ball is leaving her hand and flying directly towards Stanley. He brings the bat around sharply to meet it.

_Swoosh!_

No one moves. Beverly’s mouth falls open slightly but she quickly snaps it shut when she sees the look on Stanley’s face as his arms grow heavy and fall slowly to his sides, the bat hanging limply in his hands as he turns slowly, eyes searching for the ball where it had flown past him. Richie is not there, no one is crouched behind him to catch it, and so it had ended up bouncing off of the dugout-tent and rolling back to hit the toe of Stanley’s sneaker. His stomach lurches painfully and he wants to drop out into the ground beneath his feet, to disappear completely, but instead he kneels down and takes the ball into his hand. He twirls it three times in his fingers, almost like he’s looking for an answer in the red stitching that lines its sides, criss-crossing over dirt-stained white fabric. This ball looks loved, but for the first time, Stanley finds himself recoiling from it, and suddenly unable to stare at it any longer, he tosses it back to Beverly without looking up and rests the bat once more on his shoulder, poised for her second pitch. He hears the ball land in her mit, and he doesn’t want to think about the look she’s probably sharing with Bill right now, a mixture of concern and pity and secondhand embarrassment. His stomach twists again as he hears the crunch of gravel beneath Beverly’s shoe as she drags her leg up, bending her knee, and he hears the tell-tale sound of the ball whistling through the air. He whips the bat around, and --

_Swoosh!_

“Motherfucker!” Stanley bellows, throwing the bat down, unable to hold it anymore, disgusted, and he watches the little clouds of dirt float around it for a moment before settling again. He sucks in a sharp breath and presses the heel of his hand into his eyes, willing the tears he feels stinging at them to dry up, to not fall. Ben runs to get the ball from where it had landed near the tent this time, and he looks like he considers placing a hand on Stanley’s shoulder, but something stops him. _S’afraid you’ll break,_ a voice in Stanley’s head hisses, and when he looks up, he thinks he actually does see of touch of fear in Ben’s eyes, but concern can look a lot like fear through blurry vision, and it’s easy to see something if it’s all you’re looking for. Stanley arches his eyebrow, daring Ben to say something, anything, but he isn’t the one to speak. Beverly is.

“This would be a lot easier with a catcher…” She says it in a joking tone, the ghost of a cautious laugh in her voice, and for a brief moment, Stanley thinks he’ll ignore her, thinks he won’t allow that comment purchase in his already buzzing mind, but then Bill’s soft voice carries across the sandlot, slicing through the air like a blunt knife.

“This w-would be a lot easier with Richie in g-general,” is what he says, and Stanley is done. He’s done with baseball, he’s done playing this game, both of these games. He struck out twice, and after months of feeling everything in his life slipping through his fingers, he’s now losing the one thing he’d always thought he was good at, the one thing that was his. This lot, this game, all of it is crumbling at his feet like a sandcastle and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He squares his shoulders and looks up, eyes boring into Bill.

“I guess I’m not good enough for you.”

Bill freezes where he stands, staring back at this boy, at his best friend, and he feels like he’s fading right before his eyes. He feels his hand twitch at his side, like he wants to reach towards him, like maybe if he touched him, he could be sure he is solid, real, not a ghost, a memory. He suddenly feels like he’s dreaming, like the sandlot’s edges are dissolving as Stanley stalks away, his back already towards the rest of them. He can hear Beverly calling Stanley’s name, sobbing, begging for him to wait. He can hear Ben shouting, too.  _“Stan! Stan - c’mon, man - you’re definitely good enough - Stanley, c’mon!”_ But Stanley just keeps walking. Bill breathes in slowly, feeling his whole body shake with the motion, but he does not feel any relief at all, and when his eyes drop, he feels as if any air in his lungs is immediately, permanently sucked out.

Stanley left his bat on home plate.

 

* * *

 

Eddie has tried as hard as he can to not think about Freddie Mercury since he passed away in November.

He knows that’s terrible. He knows his friends ( _Old friends,_ his brain supplies) would be torn apart to hear that. Freddie Mercury deserves to be remembered and celebrated, not hidden away like some parts of the media have tried to make him. Eddie knows he’s just as bad as them when he turns off the radio every time We Are the Champions comes on. He feels sick. It makes him hate himself that much more.

But he can’t do it. Or, at least he couldn’t do it until he finds out about Adrian Mellon.

People don’t die in Derry. That’s what Eddie thinks. People don’t die, and if they do, they’re either old or they’re sick, like his father was. Those are the kind of people who die in Derry.

Adrian Mellon was not old. Adrian Mellon was not sick. Adrian Mellon did not die - he was murdered.

Eddie didn’t know Adrian - he wasn’t even alive at the same time as him. Eddie didn’t know why someone would want to murder the man until he was already more than 30 years in the grave. But when Eddie finds a backlog of newspapers in his basement one day when his mother sent him down there to clean it, hailing that the dirt and dust will rise from under the floorboards and get him sick, the headline _GAY MAN MURDERED_ makes him stop dead in his tracks.

He reads the whole article. Then he reads it again. He reads it over and over again until his brain feels numb and his hands and knees are shaking to the point where he collapses onto the concrete. It was 1957 and Adrian Mellon was murdered on the Kissing Bridge - the very bridge that Eddie himself has walked across hundreds of times in his life to get to school - for kissing his boyfriend there. The three murderers were identified by name and had a court sentence coming up at the time, but Eddie can’t find anymore papers from around that time. He searches desperately, but comes up empty.

And then he remembers that the library keeps a backlog of every the Derry Press ever circulated. He needs to know more. He needs to know that these disgusting, sadistic, homophobic pieces of absolute shit were brought down and Adrian Mellon was brought to justice.

So he goes to the library. And there at the library, working as he always did and still does after school on Tuesdays, is Ben Hanscom.

Eddie’s breath sticks in his throat as he watches him work, overwhelmed by the sight of him. It takes a few moments to notice, but when he does, he can’t see anything else - Ben is thinner. It seems that he shed so much weight in the few weeks since Eddie got a good look at him that he can see his cheekbones protruding and his jawline a jaunt, cut shadow against his neck. Eddie isn’t sure how this happened, or why. He prays it was done healthily, but when Ben turns around and he meets Eddie’s eyes, twin pairs of dark circles tangle up in each other and bitten, chapped lips drop open in mutual shock, and Eddie knows what he wishes he didn’t. _Knowledge is a burden,_ Mike had once told him. His old friend was right, he thinks.

Because Ben cannot stay away from someone in need - couldn't last summer when it came to Eddie and can't do it now - he takes a deep, steadying breath and walks up to Eddie. They find themselves smiling at each other before they can really try to stop themselves.

“Hi, Eddie,” Ben says.

“Hey, Ben.” He looks down at the paper in his hand that the librarian at the front desk gave him with the section of the year he’s looking for written down that he has had no luck finding. He looks back up. “Um. How have you been?”

“Alright,” he responds nervously. He doesn’t look alright. Eddie doesn’t push it because Ben isn’t pushing him when he knows he looks just as not-alright. “Can I -- ” He gestures to the paper Eddie is toying with. “You need help finding something?”

“Oh, I do, actually,” Eddie chuckles. “I’m not so good with the Dewey Decimal System as it turns out.”

“Here’s a secret most librarians won’t let you in on: not many people are.” He whispers this conspiratorially to Eddie like it’s a state secret, and Eddie laughs genuinely and heartily to the point where he gets shushed by a severe looking woman wearing glasses with a chain around them. His mind flashes to Richie unbiddenly, that maybe he could use something like that despite its dorky nature - perhaps he would lose his glasses less often then. His eyes widen at the realization that he’s thinking about Richie at this moment and he shakes his head slightly and follows Ben to where he’s searching for the year and then month that Eddie is in need of. He finds it quickly enough and he pulls out a normal-sized file with old newspapers all neatly stacked in a row. Ben gestures to them with a tiny flourish.

“Ta-da,” he smiles. “Research for school?”

“Research for myself,” Eddie responds carefully. Ben’s brow knits in confusion, but his smile doesn’t drop. He nods and hovers for a moment too long to be considered strictly professional. Eddie’s heart aches.

“Well, I -- ”

“Hey, Ben.” Ben meets his eyes hopefully and Eddie smiles softly at him. “When do you get off work? This project could use a partner I think.”

“Now! Um, I mean… Not… Not right now, actually… Ten minutes from now… But I can clock out early. Beverly was actually going to swing by when I was finished with work and we were going to take a walk because it’s so nice out today. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind helping you out with your project though! She…” Ben trails off and Eddie cocks his head, waiting for him to finish. “She misses you.” He says this almost guiltily, like he is disclosing a trusted secret.

“I miss her, too…” Eddie whispers, looking down at his shoes, as if he is also spilling a secret of his own. He looks back up at Ben. “You, too, Ben.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” They smile at each other and Eddie hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll wait over at that empty table. See you soon?”

“See you soon, Eddie.” Eddie peruses the newspapers from the cabinet Ben pulled out and comes across Adrian Mellon’s name twice. He pulls out both without reading more than the headlines and then sits at the table he and Ben had decided on. He only picks at the skin around his nails for a few minutes before he hears a sharp gasp. He looks up to see Beverly in the doorway of the large reference room.

“Eddie…” She walks over to him slowly, like one would when trying not to spook a wounded animal. “Hi.”

“Hey, Beverly. How are you doing?”

“Good, Eddie. I haven’t heard from you in -- ” She cuts herself off, immediately regretting her words. “Sorry, I… Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he whispers. He clears his throat, trying to maintain some sort of false level of normalcy. But this isn’t the way that they speak to each other. Never, even when things were hard. “I heard you and Ben are hanging out today. That’s… That’s nice.” He smiles, and it’s genuine, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah. Me, him and Bill hang out a little. Occasionally Stanley. Not anymore, really, but you know... sometimes.” Eddie nods. It makes sense - their little triad was always particularly close.

“Right,” he nods. There’s a strange silence that Eddie doesn’t like afterwards. Whenever it was silent with him and Beverly in the past, it felt comfortable. Now, all he can remember is maybe we’re just plain bad for each other screaming at him through an amplifier in his head. He looks away sharply, down at the newspapers. Beverly must, too, must read the headline of the one on top. _LOCAL MURDERERS GET 2 YEARS IN PRISON._ He feels sick. He looks back up at her and her eyes are enormously sad and tender where they rest on his dark circles, his pale skin from not going outside for months, the split in his lip he keeps licking at.

“Eddie -- ”

“Hey, Beverly,” Ben smiles, coming up to their table. “I see you’ve found Eddie. He has a project he’s been working on. Did he tell you about it?”

Beverly gapes at him and then turns to Eddie, eyes wet. She shakes her head when he looks away, ashamed. “No. Not yet.”

Ben looks at the table before Eddie can cover the headline and reads what Beverly and Eddie already have. “Oh.” His voice is small and heartbroken and he says so much in one simple word that Eddie wonders if Ben has a whole language all his own just waiting to be created inside of him.

“It’s fine, I’m just gonna go,” Eddie says, picking up the papers hurriedly. “I’m sorry… Thanks for all your help, Ben.”

“Eddie, wait,” Beverly says, reaching out to touch his arm softly. She doesn’t grab him on purpose, allows him the opportunity to slip out of her reach. He doesn’t. “Stay. Please. We -- We wanna help you with this.”

Eddie stares at them both for a long time, their eyes pleading and forlorn. He hopes he’s making the right choice when he nods slowly and sits back down. They all stare at the newspapers for a long time and then Eddie takes a breath and picks one of them up to read it. It talks about Don Hagarty, Adrian Mellon’s partner, who had testified in court and was there the day he was murdered. They wrote a bit of his testimony, that the men were brutal and cruel and said the worst things Eddie has ever read in print. It nauseates him to know that they were truly said in real life to a man who was so similar to him. Once he’s finished reading, he breathes out and puts down the papers.

“I think I’m ready to talk about Freddie Mercury,” he says. And they nod. They talk for a while in hushed tones about what living with AIDS is truly like, not what his mother had scared him into believing. He’s certain that the truth is far worse than any lie his mother tried to conjure. He’s shaking by the time Beverly is finished explaining how easy it is to go undetected, how one could be spreading it without even knowing, how someone can live with it for years before starting to show symptoms until the point of no return. Beverly reaches out and grabs his hand, her grip strong and steady, unwavering in her support. Ben slips his own hand into Eddie’s and it’s a softer touch, more tender, but it’s just as grounding. Eddie continues to shake. He thinks he should’ve brought his inhaler with him. He isn’t breathing too heavily, not the way he gets during an attack, but it’s a definite possibility. He misses the taste of camphor like an old friend.

“Is it still… Is it really still like this?” he whispers harshly. “For Richie and Stanley I mean.” This comes out rushed and nervous, like he’s not just trying to convince them, even though he’s already told one person at this table something of the contrary. Still, his eyes dart to Beverly, the flash of a plea. Beverly and Ben nod and don’t choose to comment on the last part.

“It’s different, I guess,” Beverly says. “The aggressions, they’re… Well, the people that kill homosexuals are really brought to justice now. It isn’t like the 2 years that Adrian Mellon’s murderers got.” Eddie’s shoulders visibly wilt at the mention of the jail sentence and Beverly regrets bringing it up immediately. “What I mean is, gay murders are still happening - of course they are. Murder doesn’t stop.” She looks terrified at the prospect and hurries on with her explanation. “Um, but, uh, it’s getting better in the court of law specifically. I mean, for gay people. Not for transgender folks.”

“Transgender? You mean when a man wants to be a woman instead?” Eddie asks, worried he will say the absolute wrong thing.

“Um, kind of? Instead of ‘wants to be’ it’s ‘realizes they are,’ though,” Beverly explains with a swift nod and understanding eyes. Eddie is so grateful for her.

“Why is it not the same for transgender people in court?”

“They’re not seen as people, is the best way I can put it. It’s awful,” Beverly sighs, frowning. Ben nods in agreement.

“The bigotry and bias in the court of law when it comes to the LGBT community is terrible,” he sighs. “Mellon’s murderers only getting two years for what they did… shit like that still happens. It isn’t archaic in the least.” Eddie breathes deeply, trying to steady himself. His head is spinning. He feels nauseous. He knew it was hard to be known as gay - he himself has been getting jabs since age 11, shoving him even deeper into the closet, believing the darkness is safer as long as it doesn’t get you hurt. But he never knew how truly deadly it could be.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Has what?”

“Queer people being treated like shit by the law.”

“Well, I mean, you know about Stonewall…” Eddie stares at her for a long time, wracking his brain for something of that name, and then he remembers when he came out to Beverly. _A transgender woman threw the first brick._

“Not enough,” he says, and it’s caught somewhere between certain and shameful.

“Oh, well, Stonewall is… actually, Ben, you must have a book or two about Stonewall, right?”

Ben sighs. “Yeah. In the restricted section.”

Beverly’s eyes bulge out of her head. “Restricted,” she says flatly. “Very nice, Derry.”

“All books on the gay revolution are in the restricted section,” Ben says, shaking his head. “Really grinds my gears.”

“We shouldn’t be _restricted_!” Beverly shouts. Her eyes widen, realizing what she’s just uttered, and she doesn’t even register the people around them shushing her. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Ben repeats, eyes also widening. “You’re…”

“Sort of. I mean, I’m…” She looks around, and there’s several people staring form her outburst. She sighs harshly, rolling her eyes at them. “C’mon.”

She pulls both Ben and Eddie outside, even though Eddie already knows what she’s about to say. He thinks maybe she just wants him there because they’re still friends. He hopes blindly, searching for the light of her love in the dark. She stops when they reach the statue of Paul Bunyan in the park and hops up onto it, sighing. Ben sits down in the grass in front of her and Eddie leans up against it, kicking one of his feet against the stone.

They’re quiet for a while, waiting for Beverly to speak. Eventually, she says, “I figured it out pretty young. I thought I was gay, actually, for a long time. My therapist says that’s normal for… whatever, people in my situation.” Ben doesn’t know what her situation is, but he doesn’t ask her to elaborate, and she doesn’t choose to. “But I figured out that I’m bi around the time I started dating Bill. I repressed it for a long time, the thought that I might like men as well - not because I think being bisexual is bad, but because I didn’t want to like men. I haven’t had a good… a good track record with them. Most men are hard for me to trust. And yet, somehow I ended up with a group of exclusively male friends. Fancy that.”

She’s choosing her words carefully, mouth moving around the words with purpose and determination to get this out. Eddie and Ben both love her fiercely. They both think they’re not allowed to for very different reasons, so they don’t say it out loud, but the affection they have for her shines in their eyes undeniably. “I think I still like girls more. It’s not a straight-down-the-middle kind of thing for most people I’m pretty sure. But, yeah. Both. I like both.”

Ben looks at her for a long time and then nods slowly. “Okay. That’s… Beverly, I’m glad for you. I’m glad you know who you are. That can be really hard, believe me.” He shakes his head, as if amazed by the fact that everyone has such trouble finding themselves, no matter who they are, what labels they choose, or what they look like. He shakes his head again swiftly, trying to clear those thoughts and focus. “I want you to know you can still tell me anything. I know we’re all on some sort of… break… right now…” He says this very carefully, not even sure if the word he chose was correct in the end, but he continues. “But we’re still friends. You know that.”

“Yeah, Ben, I do,” she smiles. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” They both look to Eddie and he smiles at her softly.

“Space and time don’t really matter. You know I’m always on your team.” Beverly’s smile turns warm as she nods.

“Yeah, Eddie, I was always hoping you were.”

 

* * *

 

Bill has not gone to the sandlot since that catastrophic afternoon game with Beverly, Ben, and Stanley. He cannot bring himself to set foot anywhere near it, that patch of fenced off dirt and grass that stares back at him like it’s something was once so alive, something that has since died. But when his mother asks him to pick Georgie up from a friend’s house, and that friend happens to live on the same street as the sandlot, he cannot really justify going out of his way so late at night just to avoid the place, even if walking by it does feel like he’s digging his finger into a fresh wound.

He looks at his car keys where they hang on one of the tiny hooks in the Denbrough’s garage beside the keys to his mother’s minivan and his father’s truck, and he considers taking the Volvo just for a moment before deciding against it. It’s a nice night, and all things considered, Bill doesn’t really mind walking. So he zips up his sweatshirt, closes the garage door behind him, and shoves his hands into his pockets before making his way down his street towards Ralphie’s house.

He walks in silence for a while, relishing in it, thinking of nothing in a way that he knows is limited; if Bill Denbrough knows how to do anything, it’s think and think and think some more. Thinking is easier for him than speaking; his thoughts don’t stutter. He hasn’t stopped trying to deconstruct his memory of that baseball game, of what Stanley had said to him. _I guess I’m not good enough for you._ Bill knows somewhere deep inside himself, the part where he’s locked up those feelings he felt on the night he and Stanley kissed, that the other boy was talking only to him when he said that. Bill supposes that’s selfish of him to think, wishful even, that Stanley would want a damn thing to do with him after everything that’s happened. He tugs at the strings of his sweatshirt as he walks, and he looks up just as he reaches the chain-link fence that wraps around the outfield of the sandlot. It looks like a ghost town, the sun still setting over it and washing the whole field in pinks and oranges that Bill thinks might have looked pretty if he weren’t the only one looking at them.

But he isn’t alone, he realizes suddenly, and he squints, darting forward to hook his fingers through the fence as he peers across the field to watch Ben Hanscom rounding home-plate and looking like he’s about to collapse. Bill only recognizes him because his hood had fallen back as he ran, but aside from that, he looks nothing like the boy Bill knew. He has what looks like a plastic garbage bag tossed over his sweatshirt and tied at the neck, and a pair of bagging grey sweatpants that look like they’re in danger of falling to his ankles. He has them tied around his waist with an old shoelace, and Bill blinks stupidly as he watches his old friend. He knew that Ben had begun to look a little thinner, and he remembers Beverly voicing this concern with him many times, but until this moment, until he could see this all unfolding himself, Bill truly had no idea of the magnitude of the situation.

“Ben!” he calls out to him, and the running boy stops abruptly, tripping over his own feet and sending himself flying. He hits the ground with an _oof!_ and Bill does not bother to circle the lot to come in through the opening in the fence; instead, he clambors over it and hops down on the other side. He wobbles a bit on the landing, but he barely even pauses to regain his footing before taking off in Ben’s direction.

The boy has already pushed himself into a sitting position by the time Bill reaches him, and he dusts the dirt off of his knees for a moment before accepting that some stains are permanent, and lets his hands drop to his sides. Bill can see his lip quivering and he wants to reach out to him, but he holds back, unsure exactly how Ben needs to be comforted, if he even wants to be. Bill decides asking is his best option, and so he kneels down beside his old friend so that he can have a clear view of his face that he is so desperately trying to keep straight, glistening with sweat and beat-red not unlike it had been on that very first day he’d come to play ball with them last summer. Bill aches, missing that day, but he pushes that thought to the back of his mind for now and instead focuses on this moment, this friend who needs him.

“Y-Y-You okay, Heartsome?” Bill smiles at him softly, and the callback to the name he’d been given in that comic book Eddie and Beverly had made as a gift for Richie is just enough to force the levee to break, and soon tears are rolling down Ben’s face, mixing with his sweat and burning in his eyes. He sniffles loudly and presses the pads of his fingers into his closed eyes as if he’s trying to force his tears back into his head, but they keep coming anyway, and soon he’s hiccuping, whole body heaving, and he looks so, so tired. Bill frowns, his own lip quivering as he sees his friend tremble. He wraps his arm around him and presses his lips to Ben’s sweaty hair, holding him close to his chest, and like he’s always been, Bill is the solid ground for his friend to piece himself back together. The garbage bag still wrapped around Ben crinkles as Bill runs his hand soothingly along the boy’s arm, and Ben sniffles loudly before reaching up to undo the knot near his neck and toss it aside, as far away from himself as he can manage, suddenly revolted by it. “D-Do you want to t-t-tell me wh-what’s going o-o-on?”

Ben drags the back of his hand along the tip of his nose sharply, clearing away the beads of sweat and teardrops that had gathered there before wrapping his arms around his knees and drawing them to his chest. He thinks about Mr. McNamara, about his ruthless taunts and the way that the other students have now followed his lead, because if an adult, if a teacher can say it, it’s like it gives a free pass to everyone. Ben presses his clasped hands to his shaking lips and lets his eyes close for a moment, his exhaustion and shame rolling over him in waves, and then he begins to speak. “McNamara’s been giving me hell…” he whispers, and Bill grimaces, devastated to learn his assumption is correct. “Screwing with me every day, saying shit about my weight -- ”

“Ben...” Bill sighs, squeezing his shoulder, but Ben pushes on.

“I couldn’t stand listening to his bullshit anymore, so this seemed like the only option,” he explains, and Bill’s eyes grow sad.

“I would’ve j-j-jogged with you, Ben,” he promises, and a fresh tear rolls down his friend’s face. He squeezes his shoulder again. “Th-There’s healthier w-w-ways to lose w-weight, pal…” Ben nods, knowing this is true, and also knowing that Bill isn’t yelling at him, that he’s genuinely concerned for him, and somehow that makes Ben feel even worse. “Wh-Why don’t you tr-try out for track? That’s a healthy out-outlet for exercise…” Ben chuckles darkly.

“McNamara is the coach,” he spits. “Says he’d never put someone like me on his team…” Bill purses his lips, brow furrowing curiously.

He hums, wrapping his arm around Ben’s shoulders again. “Well, then… W-W-Wouldn’t it be fucking incredible to pr-prove him wrong?”

 

* * *

 

Grace Jameson is a sweet woman. That’s what Stanley would say about her, if anyone ever asked. They haven’t. Neither of Stanley’s parents and none of his old friends have ever asked about what his therapist is like. They all knew he went to therapy, but none of them ever talked about it with him. It was almost as if they were ashamed to discuss it with him - like his illness was something to be embarrassed about. He remembers when he told Richie he’d started therapy. His old friend had made a joke, something about getting ‘right fixed up’ in some sort of unidentifiable voice. They were only 13 at the time, but it had still felt like a betrayal. He still thinks about it sometimes when he reminds himself why he should be angry at Richie.

Right now, he’s discussing his weekly progress with Mrs. Jameson. She had decided it would be best if he changed his appointments from twice a month to once a week somewhere around January. He hasn’t been doing well for a long time, but over the winter, he had started exhibiting symptoms - worrying symptoms, as Mrs. Jameson called them. She told him that he was too young to start SSRIs, so she doubled his appointment schedule. It just made Stanley feel even more crazy than he knows he already is.

“I hate it,” Stanley says. “The idea of medication - I hate it. I saw what it did to… I just… I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to be, you know, crazy.”

“Stanley,” his therapist starts with a considering frown, “you know you wouldn’t be crazy even if you did start medication. Crazy is a -- ”

“Pejorative term, I know,” Stanley sighs. He hangs his head. “I guess I would still feel that way, though. My dad, he always called Eddie ‘a little batty’ for taking so many medications.” Stanley snorts. “Not like he ever needed any of ‘em.”

“Wow,” Mrs. Jameson smiles. “That’s maybe the first time I’ve heard you say one of your friends’ names in months.”

“Old friends,” Stanley corrects, laughing humorlessly. “I guess I just don’t wanna talk about even more of my failed past than we already do.”

Mrs. Jameson frowns, eyebrows pinching. “You really think those people are part of your past?”

“I don’t know. I hope so,” he stews. His therapist just hums, sensing that Stanley isn’t finished. “That’s not… not exactly true. But I think so, yeah. I think we’re all… I think I’m done. I think it’s best for me if I’m done.”

His therapist nods, but she doesn’t stop frowning. “Okay. If you think that’s best. Taking care of your mental health is the most important thing right now.”

“Yeah…” He glances at the clock and sees that they’re three minutes over time. “Shit. My dad’s gonna kill me,” he mumbles, scrambling up. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the $20 bill his mother gave him before he left. He shoves it at her. “Here. Thanks, Mrs. Jameson.”

“You’re welcome, Stanley. I hope you have a good week.” He nods and rushes towards the door. “And Stanley?” He turns, looking harried and anxious at the idea of making his father wait. “You know you can call me Grace, right?”

“I know,” he says. “It just isn’t polite. My dad told me that.”

“Well, Stanley, your dad isn’t here right now, is he?” she smiles, and she looks so sweet that Stanley can’t help but give her a smile back. Despite its faint nature, Mrs. Jameson looks settled by it.

“See you next week,” he says, and then shuts her office door and races down the stairs. He rips the door open and runs straight to his father’s car, still running in the parking lot. He opens the door and jumps in.

“Hi, Dad. Sorry we ran over,” Stanley pants. He looks over and his father is staring out the windshield. He doesn’t react to Stanley coming into the car, just puts it in drive and peels out. There’s a long silence while they’re on the way home. Stanley bounces his knee up and down nervously, glancing over at his father every few seconds. The ride home is tense and angry and it makes Stanley want to jump straight out of the car. He entertains the thought for a few moments, how fast he would need to undo the seatbelt and roll out. He would certainly die at this speed, going 55 on the highway home from Bangor, and he thinks briefly about what his funeral would be like. His mother would make a speech, of course. He doesn’t know how genuine it would be, but it would certainly be tearful. Maybe his old friends would come. He hopes they don’t. Maybe he can wait until next week to jump out - tell his mom to not let them into the service. Richie would certainly cause a ruckus, make jokes to try to avoid feeling anything. Not that he _would_ feel anything. It’s not like any of them would. He lets himself believe this narrative he’s spun for himself, because believing anything else would tear him apart. He thinks if he rips even just a little bit further, he will never be able to be put back together.

“Stanley,” his father says gravely, “you can’t be late like this. I don’t know what you could possibly have to talk about in there, especially so often, but I have actual work to be done, so…”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” he says quietly. “It won’t happen again.”

“You’re sure right it won’t. If it does, I’ll cancel your appointments.”

“You can’t!” Stanley bursts suddenly, whipping to his father in his seat. “Please, it’s -- therapy is all I’ve got right now.”

“Well, then, that’s a pretty empty life, isn’t it?” Donald scoffs. Stanley wants to fight back, he wants to scream in his father’s face, but not only would it be unproductive, but he would be wrong to say his father is lying. He isn’t. His father is right. His life _is_ empty. He settles back in his seat, but instead of being angry, he’s resigned. He doesn’t like to lie any more than he has to - he feels like he lies enough as it is. Who he is isn’t something he can tell the truth about to almost anyone. He knows Richie feels the same, and he truly does hope he’s doing alright. He knows they aren’t friends anymore and probably never will be again. Stanley knows how badly he overreacted and pinned all his pain and worsening mental health symptoms on Richie. He knows that isn’t what friends do, and even if it does happen, a real friend would explain themselves.

Stanley isn’t a real friend. He’s an absolutely shit one, and Richie deserves better than him. They all do. He looks over at his father who is still stewing in the seat beside him and he thinks maybe he deserves all the abuse he puts Stanley through, how his mother turns a blind eye to it all. He wants to believe that he should have better than feeling like a prisoner in his own home, but he feels like a prisoner everywhere - in school, in therapy, even when he hung out with Bill, Ben and Beverly. He always feels like he’s trapped in a hopeless situation of which there is no changing. _Maybe,_ he thinks, _I always will be._

 

* * *

 

Stanley grimaces when he hears the scraping of a chair to his left, but he does not look up to see who it is that’s sat down beside him. Instead, he keeps his eyes trained on his uneaten lunch, twisting the stem of the apple in his hands. _One, two, three --_

“Stanley,” Ben’s voice is only a momentary hiccup -- _four, five, six_  -- “you’re going to need this.” And the other boy drops Stanley’s discarded baseball bat onto the cafeteria table in front of him. Stanley’s hands stop, the countdown in his head quieted for once, and he stares down at the bat. It looks clean, and Stanley feels a sudden surge of affection for Ben Hanscom, roaring like a wave in his chest, but it crashes quickly.

“No,” Stanley shakes his head. “No, I don’t think I will anymore.” His words are measured, calculated, and Ben frowns at him.

“I’m supposed to believe that Stanley Uris is never going to pick up a baseball bat again?” he demands, eyebrows rising dramatically high on his forehead. “Fat fucking chance.” Stanley resumes the twirling of his apple, trying to see how many turns it take for the stem to come loose in his palm, and Ben lets him, but he does not give up, emboldened by the way Bill had helped him and wanting to do the same for Stanley. It only takes one more twist for the stem to pop off. _Seven,_  he thinks, the number ringing holy in his head. He wonders if maybe God had a smile on His face when He made that number.

Ben still feels an incredible amount of guilt over what had transpired during their poor man’s baseball game, and he feels a personal responsibility to bring Stanley whatever peace he can muster. “C’mon, pal - I know the game didn’t go exactly as planned -- ”

Stanley scoffs. “Because Richie wasn’t there.”

“Because _everybody_ wasn’t there,” Ben hisses, and there’s a sort of fire in his voice that draws Stanley’s gaze up from his hands to finally make eye contact with the other boy. “Because we tried to play a game with four of us instead of all of us. Because we’re all too damn proud or something. I don’t fucking know. But what I do know is that none of us give a damn if you ever hit another home run for the rest of your life, Stan - we were there to play. With _you_. We miss you -- ”

“Yeah, I’m sure Bill and Bev really fuckin’ miss me, Hanscom,” Stanley snaps, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure that’s exactly how they divvy their time up - between going on dates and missing me...” Ben notes the resentment deep in the other boy’s tone, and suddenly he can see a bit clearer. He says nothing, though, for fear that he’s wrong, but he does not miss the way Stanley’s eyes seem to almost flicker instantly to where Bill is sitting beside Beverly, the pair of them talking quietly to one another. Ben recognizes the look in Stanley’s eyes, remembers it from their Holiday Party despite how drunk they’d all been, remembers every downcast droop of Stanley’s gaze whenever Bill’s lips had met someone else’s, and Ben understands.

“Stan -- ” he starts, but the other boy is already shaking his head.

“No, you know - whatever, Hanscom,” Stanley sighs, eyes closing, and Ben thinks for a wild moment that he sees his lip start to shake. “I have to get the fuck over it. We all saw what pining did to Richie and Eddie.” His voice catches in his throat and they both noticeably wince, still unable to clear their minds of that disaster of a birthday party. “I’ve got enough things tearing me apart, I don’t need to add Bill to that list.”

“Have you… Stan, have you talked to him?” Ben whispers. “About any of this? You guys… got kinda heavy at Christmas.”

“Yeah, so did a lot of people,” Stanley grumbles, and his eyes dart to Bill and Beverly again, almost like a nervous twitch. “So what?” He looks down at his lap, his face red, and Ben lets out a long, slow breath before finally resting his hand on the other boy’s shoulder. Stanley nearly quakes, unused to a gentle touch anymore, to any touch at all, and his lip does start to shake then. “I’m not out to make a fool of myself, Ben.”

“Stanley Uris? A fool? Never,” Ben smiles sweetly, and Stanley coughs out a wet laugh before raking the sleeve of his shirt along the corner of his eye when he feels tears start to well up there. He sniffles loudly. “You know there’s nothing to be ashamed of, right, Stan?”

“I’m not ashamed of being gay, Ben,” he says, and he wishes he believed himself when he says it, but there’s still something in him that won’t let him get there fully, something ugly, something that looks and sounds like his father.

“I know,” Ben says gently. “That’s not what I was talking about… I mean Bill - you don’t have to be ashamed of your feelings for Bill. It’s okay,” he promises, squeezing Stanley’s shoulder and shaking him a bit. “Shit, I think the whole world might be in love with Bill sometimes…” Stanley looks at him pointedly and Ben flushes. “Sorry. Foot in mouth. S’bad habit…” he mutters, and he looks so goddamn worried that the other boy might actually start to yell at him that Stanley can do nothing but laugh. It falls flat too quickly, but the sound makes Ben smile anyway, even if it doesn’t last very long. “And hey, you aren’t alone here… I know a thing or two about unrequited feelings…” Ben admits, and Stanley looks at him through narrowed eyes, and it might be a trick of the light, but Ben thinks he sees a touch of a grin on his old friend’s face.

“Yeah, Hanscom?” Stanley challenges, voice light in a way that Ben can relax into in a way he hasn’t felt he could with anyone in weeks. “You’re privy to my woes, huh?” Ben’s eyes land on Bill and Beverly’s table as well, and Stanley fishmouths.

“Wait, that comment about everyone loving Bill, do you -- ?”

“No,” Ben says firmly. “I mean, Bill’s cute… You don’t have bad taste, Uris -- ”

“The point, Hanscom,” Stanley pleads, sounding winded but relieved at the same time, and Ben blushes down at his lap when Beverly seems to choose that precise moment to look up in their direction.

“You’re not the only one nursing a heartache,” he whispers, and Stanley’s eyes widen.

“Oh…” is all he manages to get out, and Ben chuckles.

“Thought it might’ve been obvious…” he admits, and Stanley folds his arms across his chest.

“I mean, Bev is a lot like Bill that way - I think everyone’s a little charmed by her…” his mouth frowns around these words, and Ben tilts his head curiously, a slight frown of his own as he watches Stanley wrestle with something on the tip of his tongue, like he isn’t sure how to say what he’s thinking. “I don’t hate her, man,” he finally chokes out, and he sounds so desperate for Ben to believe him that the other boy nods immediately, resting his hand once more on Stanley’s shoulder. He knows this is a tricky balancing act, knows how it feels to teeter back and forth, to toe this line; secrets are hard, especially when feelings are involved, and they can rot people when kept for too long. “I don’t hate Beverly for dating Bill… I could never. Plus, how the fuck could I? It’s not like they aren’t good for each other.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t be a little hurt at the same time,” Ben mutters, and he smiles meekly, a smile that Stanley returns hesitantly. “Guess you and I should change our name to the Heartbreak Boys…”

Stanley snorts, and he can’t fucking believe it, but he actually feels a little better now that he’s confided this in someone else, in Ben. Secrets are so difficult, he knows this more than he’d like to, but Ben is keeping a secret, too, a secret just like Stanley’s, and so he must know a thing or two himself about the rotting it causes. Stanley feels just a little bit less alone knowing that.

“Guess so… Or the Incredible Shrinking Boys,” Stanley nudges the other boy’s shoulder, nodding in his direction and noting the more defined line of Ben’s jaw and the slight divot of his collarbone that never used to be there. “You okay?” he prompts gently, and Ben smiles.

“Wasn’t for a while,” he admits, and Stanley hums understandingly, nodding to himself, and Ben looks him over, noting the subtle but undeniable way his clothes seem to hang a bit looser on him. “I, uh… McNamara was being a real prick.”

“Always is,” Stanley grumbles and Ben blinks in wonder. Stanley is easily one of the most athletic boys in their grade; he should be the apple of McNamara’s ever-judgmental eye, but from the twisted grimace on his friend’s face, Ben realizes the gym teacher must not be very fond of him either. Stanley must recognize the confusion in Ben’s eyes, and so he points to the yarmulke pinned to his honey-blonde curls and realization washes over Ben like a monsoon. _Ah._

Ben nods. “Right. Fuck that guy.”

“Truly…” Stanley agrees, and they both chuckle. “What was it you were saying, though, buddy?” Ben’s heart soars at the term of endearment, and he can see the remnants of a grin on Stanley’s face like a symbol of hope, the most hope Ben has felt in weeks.

“Oh… Well, I kinda made it my own personal vendetta to get on the track team after McNamara wouldn’t shut up about my weight and how slow I am and shit…”

“You? Slow?” Stanley huffs around half a laugh. “You’re one of the fastest kids I know, Ben…”

“Not lately,” he admits bashfully. “I, uh… I wasn’t taking such great care of myself, and it was starting to take its toll on me… I could barely make it a few steps without needing to stop and catch my breath… I was like a sitting duck for him. But I wasn’t gonna stay that way. I started jogging every night at the sandlot.” Stanley winces at the mention of that place, the club’s old stomping ground, and Ben longs for a day when that place isn’t wrought with pain anymore. He has to believe they’ll reach that day. He has to. “I was doing stupid shit. Dangerous… Like, running with garbage bags on so I’d sweat more. Not safe.”

“Ben…” Stanley whispers tenderly. Ben smiles briefly and nervously down at his hands.

“Bill found me one night when things got… bad. He’s the one who convinced me to try out for the track team…” Stanley whistles low.

“Isn’t McNamara the coach?” Ben smirks darkly.

“Sure is,” he nods. “He told me he’d never let someone like me on his team. So I tried out yesterday.” Stanley’s eyes nearly pop out of his head.

“And?”

Ben’s grin widens. “Bill was right. It felt fucking incredible to prove him wrong.” Stanley’s mouth falls open in a shocked smile, and without thinking, he tosses his arms around Ben. Both boys freeze for just a moment, but then Ben’s arms snake around Stanley’s waist to hug him back. “You know, Stan… If I can make it onto the fucking track team,” he whispers as he pulls away, still patting Stanley’s back with one of his hands. He reaches for the baseball bat and holds it out to the other boy, smiling, “then I’m positive you can get back out there.”

Stanley hasn’t known Ben as long as he’s known the rest of his friends - his breath catches audibly in his throat, the word _friends_ beating into his skull repeatedly, the first time he’s thought of them in that way in months - but he knows this boy. He knows that the heart of a poet lives deep inside this boy the same way a writer dwells in Bill and an artist in Beverly, a caretaker in Mike, a healer in Eddie, and a confidant in Richie. Ben never says anything he doesn’t mean, and he is sure that when Ben tells him to pick himself up and get back out there, that he isn’t just talking about baseball.

Stanley smiles back at Ben as he reaches for the bat.

 

* * *

 

When Leroy Hanlon throws the keys to the family truck on the table and tells Mike that he needs him to run some meat over to the butcher one chilly April afternoon, Mike leaps at the chance. Mike has been holed up at the farm just outside of town for what feels like weeks now. When he really thinks about it, he realizes that it has been weeks. The farm is where he works, learns, sleeps, eats... There has been no escape from it. On a normal day, Mike doesn’t particularly enjoy being on the farm - there’s so many bad memories that still lurk within these fields that he feels stifled and choked by it all. He’s never been particularly good at ignoring the trauma attached to this farm - although he doesn’t let that on most of the time - but it’s always been easier knowing he had an escape route to use when things got too hard for him to handle: the Losers’ Club. Without them, the farm feels like more of a graveyard than a home.

Mike never liked to think of his friends as a means of escape, but once they were gone, he realizes that’s inadvertently what they became. He never really talks about what happened to him on these grounds very often, not even to the Losers. He more used them as a way to forget about what happened to him. When he was with his friends, he didn’t ever feel like the town pariah, the sob story, the only black kid in town. He felt seen, heard, and assimilated. That’s honestly all Mike ever wanted was to feel like he was a part of something, and being a Loser gave him that. A title, a name that was shared by others, that was Mike Hanlon’s dream.

He supposes that dream is gone.

He’s on his way out of the butcher after dropping off the bacon when he spots Katherine Thackeray coming out of the convenience store across the street. Kate is the butcher’s daughter and Mike's oldest friend - older than even the Losers. He's known Kate since he was in diapers and she's the only friend he has who has strong memories of his parents. She's an absolute darling and Mike's favorite part about the butcher’s shop. He isn't a big fan of her father, Robert Dunning, and he is even less of a fan of meat in general, but he doesn't remember the last time he said no to something his grandfather asked of him.

“Kate!” Mike calls out, waving. She looks around at the sound of his voice and when she spots him, her face lights up. She immediately runs across the street without looking where she's going and a car beeps at her for running in front of them. She waves sheepishly and runs even faster while Mike laughs.

“Stop laughing, you nimwit! I could've gotten hurt!” Kate admonishes through her own giggles. She swats at his arm playfully when she reaches him and then pulls him down for a hug. “How ya doin’, Mike?”

“Ah, you know…” he says vaguely, chuckling lightly. She pulls back and gives him a significant look.

“Actually, I don't know. You haven't seemed like yourself for weeks now,” she frowns. He shrugs and lets out a humorless laugh.

“I don't know if I am.” Her frown deepens and she coos gently, pulling him in for another hug. Mike feels terrible, like he's somehow conned her into feel bad for him. Things are alright for the most part. He has to believe that, or he’ll make himself crazy.

“Aw, Kate, you don't have to -- ”

“Let me do what I can, Mike,” Kate cuts in gently, and he immediately relaxes at the cloying quality of her voice. She rubs his back in soothing circles the way his mother used to and he at once feels completely comforted and utterly bereft. The force of his loneliness hits him like a freight train and he squeezes his eyes shut to force his tears not to fall. Not on the street, not in public, not where anybody could see him and potentially make a spectacle of him. He sighs shakily and pulls back with a weak smile.

“Thanks, kid. S’been a while since I had a hug like that.” She smiles wistfully.

“Same here, Mike,” she says. “Do you wanna talk about what's botherin’ ya?”

Mike takes a deep breath and when he lets it out, he shakes his head. “No, that's okay. I'm just… lonely. That's all. Nothing to worry about.”

“Aw, Mikey. ‘M always gonna worry about you. You're my pal,” she smiles. Mike smiles back and turns to walk away when he hears her snap her fingers and let out a noise of excitement. “Hey, Mike! I think I may know a good way to get you less lonely. We need people to walk the dogs at the kennel where I work. No one wants to do it because it's so cold out and I'm not strong enough to walk all of ‘em myself. You interested? Might get you outta the house and put a little money in your pocket.” She shrugs at his shocked expression. “No pressure or anything. Lemme know.”

Kate goes to turn into the butcher, but Mike catches her arm. “Kate, that sounds… that sounds perfect.”

“Really?!” she squeals. “Awesome! I just gotta drop off the weekly order for my coworker to my dad but I'm on my way back there now. Do you wanna walk with me? Talk to my boss? I'm sure she'll love ya - she loves me, so even if she doesn't, I'll make her.” She smiles in a way that is probably meant to be mischievous but just looks adorable in a way only Kate can pull off.

“Sure, pipsqueak, let’s go,” Mike smiles, ruffling her curls. Kate sticks out her tongue at him and hands her father a slip of paper before coming back out quickly. Mike has noted that Kate likes to spend time with her father just about as much as Mike does. He frowns at the thought, never wanting anyone to dislike their parents due to the fact that he didn't get to spend enough time with his own but knowing full-well that sometimes that's not possible. She comes out with her shoulders hunched, but when she spots Mike, she perks back up again, skipping over to him and hooking her arm through his.

“C'mon, pal - we've got some puppies to pet.”

Kate's boss does end up loving Mike and hires him on the spot after Kate tells her he works on the farm. He doesn't get so much as an interview. They either really need help or he is more polite than he originally thought. He supposes that's the mark of being a black boy in a racist town - he needed to learn to compensate and mould his personality into the most palatable thing possible until he became something they can stomach.

After about 30 minutes of showing Mike around the pound and introducing him to the dogs there, he is handed seven leashes and told to walk them around the long wrap-around driveway. Most of the dogs warm to him pretty quickly, but none moreso than a large mutt that was dropped off at the kennel in a box one cold, December night. The pound calls him Max, but whenever Mike calls him by that name, he never really responds to it. He's told that's common for dogs, but it breaks Mike's heart that he's never had a name he can recognize. His grandfather always tells Mike to never name the farm animals as they're raised mostly for meat, but Mike has always felt that to be inhumane so he's always done it on the sly regardless of his grandfather’s repeated warnings.

When he gets back into building, he lets all the animals back into their rooms, but Max stays at Mike’s heels despite him opening the door to his room. He tries to urge Max into it, but Max whines the second Mike walks away. He frowns and tells Kate that he isn't sure he wants to leave the dog in the room by himself, and Kate tells him that he can clean the rooms and then take his break with Max if he wants. Mike does this, and Kate gives him a small bag of chips from her lunchbox due to the fact that he hadn't expected to be out this long and assumes he's hungry. Mike smiles gratefully at her and brings a chair into Max's room, leaving the split-door half open as they always do, and Max's whines are immediately quieted the moment Mike enters the room. He thinks Max is just lonely. He knows how he feels.

Mike pets him for a while and then after Max is so calm that he's half-asleep, he opens the bag of chips. Max perks up dramatically. He sits up straight and his tail is wagging so wildly that his whole bottom half wiggles against the floor. Mike laughs and throws a chip in the air that Max jumps to catch it in the air. He misses and it bounces off his nose, but he immediately pounces on it and eats it quickly before sitting patiently for another one. Mike smiles gently at him and tells him he can't have anymore, but when Max seems to take this as law and simply lays at Mike's feet once again, Mike realizes that this dog makes him feel more joy than he's felt in months. He falls in love.

When he gets home that night after telling his grandfather he got a job, he carefully broaches the topic of adopting a dog. Max is smart enough to be a sheepdog, he tells Leroy, and that maybe it can be beneficial for the whole farm. Leroy reluctantly agrees and when he introduces Max to his grandfather after the adoption process goes through, Leroy demands to know why he doesn't respond to his name. Mike tells him he's never had one given to him by an owner before, and Leroy waves his hand and tells him to pick something else before going back to feeding the chickens. Mike looks down at the dog wagging his tail at his feet and thinks about the reaction he got at the pound the first day he met him.

“Mr. Chips,” he says aloud. The dog doesn't respond, but Mike thinks it's only a matter of time before he does. Looking at the dog, his dog, he feels the least alone that he has since Richie's party back five weeks ago. He thinks Kate is a blessing for suggesting this to him. He's so grateful for his new friend’s loyalty. Maybe he can finally have a friend who won't leave when things get hard. “I think I'll call you Mr. Chips.”

 

* * *

 

From the time she first met him in middle school, Beverly Marsh has been sure that no household could possibly be cozier than the Denbrough’s, that no four walls could ever quite emanate such a comforting ease as the ones in which Bill and Georgie were raised. The pair of boys themselves carry around an overwhelming feeling of serenity that burns warmly inside them, working its way from the inside out so that it's impossible not to feel it when you’re around them. This is one of the many reasons Beverly loves spending time here, and not just with her boyfriend, but with Georgie and Terri as well.

Zack Denbrough isn’t all that bad either, she thinks after watching him interact briefly with his wife, pressing a kiss to her temple as he moves through the kitchen. He takes the plate she’d left in the fridge for him back out of the microwave before disappearing into his office to finish up whatever he was working on. He’s not all that bad, he’s just distant, consumed with his work, and leaving Terri to play parent as a result. He pats Georgie on the head as he crosses through the living room, leaning over the back of the sofa to ruffle his hair, and Georgie turns to smile up at his father toothily for a moment before returning his focus to the board game he and Bill are playing. Zack sends a curt nod in his oldest son’s direction, and then he is gone. Beverly frowns, wondering if there’s such a thing as the perfect parent. Her own father was a monster, a dragon whose breath she swears she can still feel on the back of her neck though she knows he was slain years ago; Eddie’s mother is overbearing; Bill’s father and Richie’s mother are indifferent, favoring one child over another; Stanley’s father has no other child to attend to and doesn’t seem pleased with the one he has; any softness that existed in Mike’s grandfather was burnt to a crisp in the same flames that robbed Mike of his parents; and Ben’s aunt works too much to notice that her nephew is practically withering away, that he seems to almost be shrinking before her very eyes.

That was the real reason Beverly arrived on the Denbrough doorstep today, ready to burst until Bill had opened the door and smiled his typical, serene smile at her; she cannot fathom how he has managed to hold onto that smile throughout this whole mess, but she is grateful for it, for it reminds her that maybe everything from before isn’t lost. She thinks Bill Denbrough’s smile could rebuild the group from the ground up, all on its own. He chuckles when she whispers this to him this as she curls up beside him on the floor, head resting on his shoulder while she watches him finish up his game of Candyland with Georgie. The clock sitting on the table next to the sofa reads 8:30 P.M.

“Alright, buddy,” Bill says, smiling across the coffee table at the little boy when he lets out an incriminating yawn. “I think you should get to bed…”

“Aww, but -- ” Another yawn slips through Georgie’s lips mid-protest that he tries and fails to conceal behind his hand, “I wanna play a round with Beverly!” She coos.

“Oh, next time, sweetheart,” she promises, and he pouts, but he tosses his hand across the table at her, pinky held out.

“Swear?” he challenges, and she hooks her pinky around his determinedly.

“On my life,” she insists, and Georgie nods, satisfied.

“Okay,” he relents, getting to his feet, and he wobbles a bit, even more of a giveaway of how tired he actually is. He shuffles around the coffee-table to leap into his brother’s arms, and Bill laughs, hugging the little boy close to his chest. “Love you, Billy…”

“Love you, Georgie,” Bill replies. “I’ll come read your story in a couple minutes, yeah?” Georgie nods and then moves to climb into Beverly’s lap, coiling his arms around her shoulders and tucking his head beneath her chin. Beverly kisses the crown of his head and scratches at his back lightly, tickling him.

“Beverly!” he shouts, leaning back to beam up at her, stars in his eyes, and she bops his nose gently.

“Georgie!” she says back in precisely the same tone, and both of them giggle as he hugs her tightly around her middle this time, sighing deeply. “I love you, sweet boy. Get some sleep…”

“I love you, too,” he answers, and then he pushes himself out of her embrace and back to his feet, stretching his arms high over his head as he yawns. He scratches at his scalp as he makes his way to the stairs leading up to his bedroom, and once he’s half-way there, he whirls around to wave at the two teenagers, calling, “Goodnight!” and waiting for them to wave back before finally barreling up the remaining steps.

Bill waits until he hears the slam of Georgie’s bedroom door before speaking. “Thank you f-for being good to him,” he says, and Beverly gives him a pointed look.

“Always,” she says simply, but her brow is furrowed.

“He keeps asking me wh-where everyone is,” Bill explains, and Beverly’s heart stutters in her chest. She doesn’t think any of them realized what the time apart would do to Georgie. “I think seeing you m-makes him feel like everyone else w-w-will be back around ev-v-ventually…”

“I hope he’s right,” Beverly whispers, and Bill does not miss the way her voice quivers.

“Hey, I’m the o-o-one with the stutter around here,” he admonishes playfully just as he’s done before, and Beverly laughs wetly, wiping at the corner of her eye with the sleeve of her sweater where it hangs past her fingertips.

“Okay, Richie,” she shoots back, and both of them chuckle sadly, missing their friend, that loud, silly boy and his antics. They think about the way he’s always fallen all over that joke, laughing until his sides hurt and grappling for Eddie’s sleeve to keep himself upright, and the way Stanley and Ben look at him like they’re torn between punching him or joining in. Beverly’s insides feel like they wilt when Ben flashes through her mind, and she remembers the original reason why she’d come to talk to Bill.

“I’m worried about Ben,” she says, finally out loud and not in her own head like she’s been hearing it on a loop for weeks. “He looks like he’s getting really thin, Billy, and I’m scared it’s because of this… because of us all not being together anymore… I know it’s hurting all of us. I’ve tried to talk to Stanley since the game, but he just seems… lost… Eddie seems like he’s always running in the opposite direction now, like he thinks he won’t get hurt as long as he keeps moving… Christ, Richie looks like a fucking ghost whenever I see him now… And I haven’t even seen Mikey…” Bill jolts a bit when he realizes she’s right, that he hasn’t seen Mike in months. He suddenly feels unbelievably cold. “Jesus, Bill - what are we doing?”

Bill looks down at his hands where they’re folded in his lap, and Beverly closes her eyes, breathing in deeply, the noise rattling in her chest loud enough for him to hear. He lifts one of his hands to place it carefully on the spot where her shoulder meets the curve of her throat, and he kneads his thumb into the ball of her neck. She leans into his touch, letting her head fall onto his shoulder, and he presses a chaste kiss to her temple that breaks the dam, and soon she’s choking back sobs, terrified of drawing Bill’s parents into the room with her cries. She presses the heel of her hand to her lips, trapping the sounds there, not willing them past her trembling lips, and Bill feels like he could get sick. He hasn’t seen Beverly cry like this in years, and he can’t help but feel responsible. He’s always brushing off their friends appointing him their quote-un-quote leader, but the truth is he accepts that role with grace, and so he feels like this mess, like the splintering of their little circle is all his fault. There has to have been something he could’ve done. He could’ve vetoed drinking at Richie’s birthday - God knows none of them would have pressed the matter if Bill was the one to say it; he could’ve shut Richie down with one stern _beep beep_ and Richie would have never pushed the envelope, never called Beverly by that name. And sure, Bill knows Richie didn’t mean it. He knows that he’s one of the only people who know just how vile that name is to her, that Richie would have never said it if he knew the truth, and that is probably what is killing Bill the most, the fact that he was so quick to jump on Richie when he could have handled it differently, when he could have done anything else.

“I don’t know,” he whispers, and for what it’s worth, it’s almost more reassuring to Beverly that Bill, that strong, mild-mannered, brilliant Bill doesn’t know either. It makes her feel okay in her own confusion. She twists her hand around his, knotting their fingers together, and she bumps her forehead against his chin, breathing in sharply through her nose as she tries to regain control of her breathing, matching her own with Bill’s. “We uh -- we always f-felt like the perfect storm, you know?” Bill says, and Beverly chuckles despite herself, nodding in fierce agreement, thinking that a storm is the perfect analogy for the seven of them. “Like we were alw-ways bigger than anything that st-stood in our way…”

“That’s for sure,” she whispers, and he kisses her again, her hair this time. “Now we’re in our own way.”

“Hmm,” Bill sighs. “M-Maybe…”

“Definitely,” she argues lightly, wiping at her nose. “I, uh…” she starts carefully, wrapping her arms around her legs and pulling them to her chest. “Can I tell you something, Billy?”

“You can t-tell me anything, Bevs,” he promises, and Beverly bites her lip.

“I…” she starts, and her knuckles are white as she balls her hands up, digging half-moons into her palms. “I like girls, Bill,” she breathes.

Bill blinks. “Oh…”

“I like boys, too,” she barrels on, almost like now that the truth is almost out, she can’t stomach keeping it in any longer. “I’m… I’m bisexual…” She chances a nervous glance up at her boyfriend, and she is relieved to find him smiling sweetly at her.

“I c-can’t really say I’m all that s-surprised, Bevs,” he admits, and then his smile falters a bit, worry clouding his eyes. “I h-hope that isn’t r-rude of me to say…”

Beverly chuckles and tosses her arms around him, kissing his cheek. “No, it isn’t… It’s the best thing you could’ve ever told me, in fact,” she promises, and he rubs her back lightly. “Right before Richie’s party, I was talking to Eddie and… I told him, and it was the first time I felt like I was getting out of my own way, like I was moving towards something,” Bill tightens his hold on her when he feels her starting to shake. “Eddie helped me get there. And Stan. And you, too. All of us. That’s what we are, Bill - we’ve always helped each other. This… this isn’t what we are…” He nods against her shoulder and pulls her closer.

“You’re right…” Bill says without a single hitch in his speech. “We’re friends… We aren’t… this.” Beverly pulls back to look at him, a small smile on her face, and her eyes narrow playfully.

“Do I sense a double meaning to those words, Denbrough?” she prompts, and he smiles back at her, his eyes soft, opening his mouth to respond, to apologize, but she cuts him off. “It’s okay, Bill. I feel the same way,” she reassures, and she can practically see the tension leave his body. “You’re always going to be my best friend more than anything else, and I’ll love you ‘til we’re old and wrinkly and grey -- ” Bill lets out a genuine laugh for the first time in what feels like years, “but I think we’d do better to go back to normal. Maybe it’ll make everything else go back to normal, too.”

“Oh, Bevs, did you r-really forget about the good old days that f-f-fast?” he teases. “We were never fucking normal.”

“Thank God,” she agrees. “But we were us. Maybe now, we can be that way again…”

“You’re n-not just talking about you and I, are you?” Bill asks, the laughter in his voice disappearing.

“Bill,” she levels him a look, “are we ever just talking about you and I?”

“No,” Bill chuckles softly. “I suppose we aren’t… Beverly?”

“Yes, dear?” she smiles, resting her head on his shoulder comfortably, and it feels like nothing has changed. Like everything has.

“I… I like b-both, too… Girls and… and b-boys.” Bill breathes, and it’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and it makes complete sense that Beverly would be the first to know. Her head snaps up, a watery grin on her freckled face, and she takes his face in her hand and kisses his forehead chastely, letting her lips linger there and brushing away his tears when she feels them hit her thumbs.

“Good to know, pal,” is all she says, but her words wrap around him like a warm embrace, and he falls into them, lets them repeat over and over in his own mind. _Good to know. Good to know. Good to know._

 _Yes_ , Bill thinks. _Yes, it is._

 

* * *

 

Richie knows his mother is drunk because the television is blaring downstairs. It’s a Friday night in late April and Jess is out with friends, some party with her teammates that Richie called ‘trite and boring.’ That comment made Jess fume and scream at Richie, calling him ‘a shut-in, hermit, friendless loser.’ Richie had scoffed and told her to get some original insults.

As much as his mother infuriates him, Richie worries about her. He knows her coping mechanisms are nothing short of dangerous. He’s addicted to cigarettes himself, wearing away at his own lungs with each and every drag. Lately, he’s been chain-smoking out his bedroom window, half a pack a day, the most he’s ever gone through at once. He isn’t sure if it’s due to stress, if it’s because he knows each cigarette smoked brings him closer to death, or both.

Richie hears _Jeopardy_ blasting from the tube speakers of their TV and Richie sighs, stubs his cigarette on the vinyl siding of the house where he was smoking out the window of his room, and trudges downstairs. Unsurprisingly, Richie finds his mother with a lazy, drugged half-smile on her face, splayed out on the couch like a murder victim with a bottle of cheap rum clutched in her hand.

 _“To Kill A Mockingbird_ ,” his mother slurs at the TV set. He’s shocked she’s even still conscious with how much of the bottle is gone.

 _Ding._ “What is _To Kill A Mockingbird?”_ someone on the television asks.

“That is correct.” _Ding._ Richie never said his mother was stupid. He would never deign to say he got his intelligence from his father. No, Maggie and Richie Tozier are both masters of diversion, and one of the ways they do that is by getting people to believe they are not nearly as smart as they seem.

“Ma, at least get a glass,” Richie sighs quietly, making his presence known. Maggie’s head rolls so she can face Richie.

“Richie, come play _Jeopardy_ with me,” she says. It isn’t a demand or a request, but more of a question. _Am I a good mother? Have I done a good job? Are you alright?_ Richie smiles sadly at her.

“Okay,” he whispers harshly, voice caught in his throat. He knows his mother didn’t hear his response, but she doesn’t ask him to repeat himself. He nods slowly and clears his throat. “Sure, one round.”

Richie sits down and Maggie offers the bottle to Richie, almost more out of raw politeness than thinking he’d take it. He shakes his head. She smiles at him.

“You’re a good boy, Richie,” she says. She hiccups, whole body rolling with it, and for a second, Richie is certain she’s going to vomit on him. Richie braces himself with a hand on her shoulder, but it doesn’t happen, and Maggie stabilizes, breathing out slowly. He takes his hand away. “You’re--… You’re sad.” It isn’t a question, but more of a fact of the universe. Richie nods.

“Yeah, I am.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you, Richie,” she says. She puts her free hand on his and squeezes it. Richie notes the differences and similarities between their hands: Maggie’s are narrow where Richie’s are wide, Maggie’s are soft and clammy where Richie’s are calloused and dry. But they’re both bony, they’ve both got little scars from times they’ve been clumsy, and they both tell a story the other can read right now. Richie looks up to her and smiles. This time, it’s not so sad.

“It’s okay, Ma,” Richie says earnestly. “I know you do your best to help.”

Maggie laughs humorlessly. “That’s not true. But it’s sweet that you have even an ounce of faith in me.”

Richie’s brows pinch in and he clasps his mother’s hand so they’re now clutching each other. “Ma, I’m not gonna give up on you. You’re family.”

“What, like Wentworth was? He was family and he gave up. He really gave you a great example on family,” Maggie spits sourly.

“No,” Richie says, shaking his head. “He’s not family. I choose my family and I say you’re my family as long as you say I’m yours. Am I your family, Mom? Are we family?”

Maggie looks at him hazily and something foreign to Richie clouds her eyes. “Is Jess your family?”

Richie rears back like he’s been shot, and drops his mother’s hand. “What?”

“Is Jess your family?” she repeats, and she’s slurring again, laughter in her voice. The tender, loving mother that Richie thought he saw in her is gone and Richie doesn’t know where she went - if she was even ever really there at all. Perhaps Richie was only seeing what he wanted to see. After all this time and all the evidence piled high in his brain that proves he shouldn’t, he still has faith in the people he loves.

“Mom, Jess doesn’t consider me her family so I don’t consider her mine. That’s how family works,” Richie says slowly. His mother has turned back to the television during this explanation with a blank expression. Her mouth is pursed in concentration and for a moment, Richie dares to dream that she will say that he is her family. That even though she’s drunk, she still loves him. She always loves him.

“Charon,” she says. Richie looks at her, confused.

 _Ding._ “What is Charon?” a man on the television asks.

“That is correct, Pluto’s moon is Charon.” _Ding._ Maggie smiles.

“Knew it,” she mumbles. Richie scoffs lightly, shakes his head, and stands. With his back to his mother, he turns his head slightly so she can hear him.

“I’m going out, Mom. Be careful.” Silence.

“Oh, _Say Anything,”_ his mother calls out.

 _Ding._ “What is _The Breakfast Club?”_

“Oh, come on! It’s obviously _Say Anything!_ Uncultured little shits…” Richie sighs, shakes his head, and walks out the door. He grabs his bike from where it’s leaning against the side of the house and takes off down the street and into the dark, cool night. He has no destination in mind, and he isn’t thinking at all on his trek. He’s utterly and completely numb.

Richie finds himself at Eddie’s house, just as he should’ve assumed he would. It’s late, maybe 10:45 P.M., and when Richie ditches his bike in the Kaspbrak’s yard, he can see the soft light from Eddie’s lamp coming from inside his room, lighting up his billowing curtain with a warm yellow glow. Richie can tell Eddie’s window is open, and he wonders if that is an invitation to the open world. He prays hard, blindly hopes as he watches the figure of Eddie’s shadow move around his room. But then the light goes off and the room goes dark and Richie knows deep in the cell of his heart that it’s not an invitation - Eddie doesn’t want him. Eddie listened to the sage and wise Beverly just like Richie should: _maybe we’re just plain bad for each other._

Richie jumps back on his bike and pedals fast and hard toward town, hellbent on not crying. He stops at the park so he can smoke through his pack of cigarettes, but he realizes he left his pack at home, so he speeds to Freese’s, hoping it’s still open. It is, and Richie dumps all the change he has in his pockets out on the counter when he gets there and grabs a Hershey bar, putting it on the counter. When little old Mrs. Peterson stares into the register to begin counting out the coins Richie gave her, he slips one of the packs of Parliaments on the display case into the pocket of his denim jacket, as easy as breathing, just as Beverly taught him to do when they were 13 years old.

He suddenly misses her with a physical ache in his chest, like a lightning bolt to his nerve endings. He jolts roughly and Mrs. Peterson looks up, startled.

“Are you okay, dear?”

“Yeah, I’m alright,” he says, breathing a bit heavily. “You got all my change there for the chocolate, ma’am?”

“I do. You need a bag, honey?” she asks with a friendly smile, and Richie almost feels bad for stealing from her. Well, he would if he didn’t hear this old hag whispering last month about how ‘that Marsh girl is just no good. Needs a father’s influence.’ Bitch.

“I’m fine,” he smiles back, far too sticky-sweet to be considered anywhere near genuine for Richie Tozier. He pats his jeans. “Got my pockets.”

“Okay. Be careful ridin’ at night, sweetheart!” she calls as Richie hurries out of the store.

“Thanks, Miss!” Richie responds over the bell on the door. “Sweetheart…” he mutters once the door slams shut. “I’m no fuckin’ sweetheart.”

He thinks about the party and what he said to Beverly then. He feels nauseous. He wants to see her, wants to laugh with her and bum a cigarette off of her even though he has a full pack in his pocket, but he doesn’t know if he’s still allowed to - if he’s got any right to even still miss her. He starts biking to Beverly’s apartment, just planning to stare at her window when he gets there, just as he’d done with Eddie. But when he ditches his bike on the side lawn of her complex under the sycamore tree and stares at the lit window of her bedroom, Richie starts collecting stones and begins mindlessly tossing them at the glass instead of simply staring like a fucking weirdo. He figures this is more productive than staring, anyway. Especially when Beverly sticks her head out the window, hair a curly, frizzy mess and looking considerably more annoyed than the last time Richie got a good look at her a few months ago.

Richie thinks she’s absolutely fucking beautiful.

“Hey, Beverly.” He flounders. He pats his jacket and then pulls out his Parliaments. “Got a light?”

Her perturbed look melts into one of confusion and then she masks all of that with an eye roll. “Give me a second, Trashmouth. You’re gonna wake my aunt with that racket.”

“Apologize to Auntie for me, would ya? Actually, you think she’s got a light? She can come hang, too, you know.” Beverly smiles softly and then it morphs into something strange, something guarded, something that Richie doesn’t recognize ever seeing on Beverly’s face before.

“Nah. Auntie’s much more pure-hearted than either of us,” she says. Richie nods, trying to hide the apprehension he feels, hoping he hasn’t just made a huge mistake.

“That’s absolutely accurate.” She sticks her pointer finger out the window and then shuts it. Richie sits underneath the tree and waits, entirely expecting Beverly to not come out at all. But Beverly Marsh is a creature of surprise, and after five minutes of Richie fiddling with his pack of cigarettes and picking fallen leaves into minuscule pieces on his lap, she comes around the front of the complex with a jacket that looks far too big for her on and sits next to him.

“Ooh, is that Sir Denbrough’s crest you’re wearing, Lady Marsh? Is he taking you to the Grand Ball?” Richie asks in his high society Voice, swooning dramatically but being hyper-aware that he doesn’t touch her in any way, still not knowing where they stand after the party or why what happened even occured. He doesn’t think now is the right time to ask and, despite popular belief, Richie Tozier does possess an incredible amount of restraint when it comes to delicate matters - especially ones that he knows could hurt him or the people he cares about. He’d much rather use his tried and true method instead: deflection.

“Oh, yeah, this is Bill’s,” Beverly chuckles, poking at the denim jacket that looks much newer than Richie’s that is ripped to shreds. “I should return it.”

“Why? Isn’t wearing your boyfriend’s jacket a way to show all the ladies around the watering hole that he’s a taken gazelle?”

“Odd mixing of metaphors there, Tozier, but no, considering he isn’t my boyfriend anymore.”

“He’s -- what?” Richie asks, voice noticeably softer. “He’s not?”

“Nah. Everything’s fine - we’re better than ever. It just… we’re much better off as friends, you know?” she muses, laying back against the tree, staring up at the starry night sky through the barren tree branches. Richie nods wordlessly, not sure how to answer. She pulls a lighter out from her coat pocket and hands it off to Richie who takes it gratefully and quickly lights a cigarette, hands jittery and eager to do more than pick at the ever-growing holes in his jeans. He inhales and holds the smoke in his chest, letting the small, tangible feeling of calmness fill him up, reach into his nerve endings and make them dance before breathing out and speaking again.

“You want one?” he asks, offering her a cigarette.

“God, still with the Parliaments…” she tuts, looking at him with a sad look. “People only buy those when they’re lookin’ for a death sentence.”

“Aren’t we always buyin’ cigs lookin’ for a death sentence, Bev?” he asks, voice deceptively light, the pack still extended to her. He takes another long drag without breaking eye contact.

“I mean, you know as well as I do they have a recessed filter.” He yanks the pack of cigarettes back and takes another drag, looking back up at the sky and aiming the smoke at the stars, hoping whatever or whoever’s up there doesn’t judge him for wanting to meet them earlier rather than later. Beverly is right, of course - he only smokes Parliaments because he is hoping desperately that they’ll kill him faster. Richie isn’t going to take his death into his own active hands - but if the cigarettes he smokes are doing nothing to aid his survival, well, the world won’t know he knew any differently, will it? His mother knows the alcohol is going to kill her, and Richie knows that’s what she hopes for. He learned from the best when it comes to playing dumb.

Playing dumb didn’t factor in the whip-crack intelligence of Beverly Marsh, though.

“Yeah, I do. Enhances the flavor,” Richie sniffs derisively.

“Of cigarettes? You and I both know we aren’t smoking for the taste,” she says, giving him a weighted look. Richie feels his skin crawl, being so exposed and vulnerable in front of someone he hurt so badly, and he wants to chase that calm feeling he got from the first cigarette, so when he stubs out the first, he immediately pulls out another with shaky hands and lights it up. Beverly allows him to take a drag before carefully extracting the cigarette from his unsteady grip and putting it out on the sole of her combat boot. Her hand comes back to curl around his shaking wrist. Richie, helpless and so desperately starved for even a shred of kindness, allows her to. He feels so guilty that Beverly feels like she has to be the one who has to supply it. “Richie. Why do you smoke Parliaments?”

And Richie breaks.

For weeks, Richie has been waiting to break, has been waiting for the floodgates to open and the water to destroy everything in its path. He wholeheartedly expected to be alone when this happened, as he’d been almost entirely alone for the last six weeks. But he isn’t alone. He’s with Beverly Marsh, the girl he hurt so badly and cannot fix with an apology, cannot be explained away with a beep beep, Richie. Beverly Marsh, the one who said maybe we’re just plain bad for each other. Beverly Marsh, Richie Tozier’s best fucking friend. And so he breaks.

He collapses inward and hugs his knees tightly into his chest as he knocks painfully into the bark of the tree with the force of his sobs, trying to shield Beverly from everything he’s done - but Beverly doesn’t want to be shielded. She knows, undeniably and unquestionably, that Richie Tozier is not her father. Alvin Marsh was abusive and cruel and uncaring from the day Beverly could understand what those words meant. He would use what Beverly thought were his emotions against her to manipulate her in ways that makes her sick to see Sonia Kaspbrak do to Eddie in similar ways to this day. But the difference between those two people is that Beverly’s father was absolutely unfeeling. He had to be, must’ve shut that part of his brain off - possibly never even had it at all - to do what he did to her without remorse. Sonia feels _too much_ and she inflicts those toxic emotions on Eddie. But Alvin? Alvin only ever wanted to own Beverly and didn’t care about anything else but making that conquest a reality. He died for the cause. Beverly’s glad he did. On the days where she doesn’t remember how it felt to watch her father die by her own hand, she’s glad.

The night of the party, she remembered. In visceral, painful detail, how all of it felt - to be used, to be owned, to be nothing but property. But the more space she got from that night, the more she was able to see clearly that Richie was never trying to be her father - Richie could never be her father. No one could ever replicate him. So when she curls her arm around Richie’s back and pulls him into her side, it’s with the knowledge that Richie’s tears prove indisputably that he will never be Alvin Marsh.

Richie looks up at her with bleary eyes and foggy glasses. Beverly smiles wistfully at him as he takes them off. She grabs them from him and wipes them off with the soft cotton of her dress before slipping them back on his face. His eyes look huge and horribly sad, sadder than Beverly has ever seen them.

_He’ll never be Daddy. Never._

“There he is,” she smiles. She brushes a lock of hair out of his face tenderly, and the movement is filled with such chasteness and kindness that Richie has not felt or experienced for over two months that he feels a fresh wave of tears break all over again.

“Hey,” Beverly chuckles, reeling him in again. “It’s alright, Rich. It’s okay.”

“It’s not. Nothing’s _okay_ , Beverly,” he cries. And, really, Beverly has nothing to say to that that isn’t a lie. So instead, she says nothing.

“Richie?” she starts after a while, voice kind and gentle. He looks up, still heaving every now and then with sobs. “Am I the person you really want right now?” She doesn’t mean for it to come out insecure; Beverly Marsh is not, by nature, an insecure person - not in the least. But she finds herself worried in this moment that Richie is merely using her as a placeholder for someone he wants more: someone he loves in a much different way, someone he could love more, someone who may or may not even exist anymore.

Richie smiles at her, the girl he loves more than any other walking this cursed, stupid, wretched earth, and even though it’s watery, it’s the first one that looks genuine that she’s seen on him since before his birthday. It makes her want to cry as well. He knocks their foreheads together gently.

“You’re certainly one of them.”

Beverly smiles back, hopeful. “One of six?”

Richie nods and slings an arm over her shoulder, hoping desperately that this type of platonic contact is okay now, considering she initiated it first. She tucks herself into his side and Richie breathes out. “One of six, Bee.”

 

* * *

  
  
Bill Denbrough is sure that he would be able to find his way to any one of his friends’ homes with his eyes closed, but the dirt road leading to the Hanlon Farm is one that he knows especially well.

He’s sure it must be a trick of the light, of the mind, but he feels as if this trail, this earth rolling beneath Silver’s tires remembers its tread, that the air whistling past him might recall the sound of Eddie’s shrieking laughter as he chases after Richie. _God_ , Bill thinks, _they really were always chasing after each other._ He thinks the wildflowers stretching their faces towards the sun are just hoping, waiting for Beverly to pluck them from the sides of the road and tuck them into the breast pocket of Ben’s shirt, that the birds chirping high in the sky are calling out for Stanley to look up and notice them at last. Stanley’s face on the sandlot flashes quickly through Bill’s mind and he almost topples off of Silver, dropping his feet from the pedals at the last moment to skid to an unceremonious halt in front of the Hanlon’s mailbox. He looks up the long, winding driveway and does not see Leroy Hanlon’s pick-up truck in its usual place parked near the house.

What he does see is Mike. He is standing in his front lawn, peering off curiously towards the side of his house as if he is waiting for something to appear, and Bill’s gaze drifts in the same direction just as a large, scruffy-looking dog comes barreling into view, a partially deflated ball that is still much too big to fit in its mouth wedged between its teeth, tongue lolling happily as it runs towards where Mike stands whistling and patting his thigh. Bill smiles at the sight, watching Mike kneel down to scratch behind the dog’s ears after it drops the ball at his feet; it must sense an unknown presence then, because its ears perk up and it looks sharply in Bill’s direction, and he can see it crouch forward a bit, starting to growl quietly. Mike’s brow furrows and he turns towards Bill then, too, eyes widening when he finally sees him standing far at the end of his driveway, and Bill raises his hand to wave, a cautious smile on his face.

“Is that the famous Bill Denbrough I see?” Mike calls out to him, still petting the dog’s head when Bill treks his way over to where Mike is kneeling in the grass, staining his jeans. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he prompts as Bill too ducks down and offers a tentative hand towards the dog.

“Wh-Who’s this?” he wonders as the dog sniffs at his palm before bopping his knuckles with his wet nose, and Mike does not miss the way he’s dodged his question. He sees the light blush coloring the other boy’s cheeks and thinks it might not totally be from the chill in the air, that maybe Bill is embarrassed. Mike wonders if Bill knows he isn’t the only one who hasn’t made a point to visit him, that Mike hasn’t seen any of them since Richie’s party aside from Ben who he passes on occasion when he bikes into town, but the look in Bill’s downcast eyes tells Mike all he needs to know. Bill absolutely knows that none of the others have come out here. And that Bill is ashamed of this. Mike thinks he needn’t be, that he should tell Bill he isn’t mad at him, at any of them, but he can’t seem to bring himself to say it.

“His name’s Mr. Chips,” Mike says instead, and the dog flops onto his back then, rolling over to expose his stomach, and Bill scratches at it happily, smiling down at him. “I got a job at the pound, and this fella got real attached real quick…”

“Who could bl-bl-blame him with that handsome m-mug of yours, Hanlon?” Bill replies, and Mike chuckles, the sound warm and familiar, and it instantly puts Bill at ease. He offers the ball to Mr. Chips, who takes it happily and begins to roll around with it, his huge paws batting at it as he gnaws at the already frayed rubber, puncturing it even more. “Where’s Gramps?”

“In town…” Bill nods, still looking down, anywhere but directly at Mike. “Mr. Chips is most of my company lately…” He doesn’t sound angry when he says it, he doesn’t even really sound sad - he just sounds like Mike, and that somehow makes it even worse. Bill lets his eyes close slowly, his head falling a bit forward, and he lets out a quiet breath puff of air through his nose.

“Mikey, I’m sorry,” he blurts out, head still hanging. He raises a shaky hand to trail it through his hair and Mike notices how much it’s grown, how it hangs in his eyes more than usual, the late afternoon sun setting the reds in it on fire. “I’m s-sorry I haven’t been a-rou-rou-round lately…

“No worries, Big Bill,” Mike whispers sweetly, and he places his hand on the other boy’s shoulder. “I don’t exactly live all that close to any of you…” Bill lets out a bit of a whimper at that because it confirms his worst fear. None of them have come to visit Mike.

“That’s n-n-not the p-p-p -- _shit,”_ Bill growls, and a tear rolls down his cheek that he quickly swipes away with the back of his hand before finally looking at Mike, eyes smoldering. “You’re my friend,” he insists, voice quiet but firm, and the clarity of that single statement is enough to get Mike’s lip quivering. “One of my b-best friends and I -- it isn’t a l-lot to ask that I m-make a trip out here to s-s-see you.”

“Hey, pal, we all have lives, you know?” Mike shrugs, voice thick, but he tosses his arm around the other boy to drag him closer. Bill’s eyes close in reverence at the contact, stunned by Mike’s capability to forgive and forgive and forgive. He has seen this boy face some of the ugliest things in this world, and yet has never known any of them to harden his heart. He hopes nothing ever will. Bill leans into Mike’s embrace, resting his head in the crook of his shoulder, and Mike whistles, calling Mr. Chips over to them. The dog pops up from where he was rolling in the grass and trots over to them, splaying across both of their laps with his head resting on Bill’s thighs. “You guys all have school and stuff. I know that…”

“Mike,” Bill shakes his head. “You c-can be angry at us. At me…”

“Hmm… Sure, I could,” Mike agrees. “But I won’t. I don’t want to… Anger isn’t going to fix this. Anger is what landed us here in the first place, pal, and until everyone else realizes that, nothing’s going to get any better…” He squeezes Bill’s shoulder tightly, giving him a one-armed hug.

“You st-still think there’s s-something left to f-f-fix?” Bill ask, and Mike is sure he’s never heard Bill sound so scared in his life. Mike tries not to let his own fear show after that, knowing that if Bill is this afraid, that he needs someone who isn’t. Bill was always there for the rest of them, was always their strength. Mike thinks it’s only fair for someone to be Bill’s strength for once, and he’s happy to shoulder such a responsibility.

“Don’t you?” he wonders. Bill’s lips twitch into the beginnings of a smile, and the tension in Mike’s shoulders is gone. “Or did you come all the way out here chasin’ a lost cause?”

”Never,” Bill insists. Mike believes him.

 

* * *

 

Richie saw the guitar at their local thrift store. Every time he sees the run-down sign on Kansas Street for Secondhand Rose, Secondhand Clothes, he snorts derisively. _Stupid fucking name,_ he always thinks. He almost never goes to it - only when he starts seriously growing out of his current closet (a more common occurrence as of late) because it’s all the way at the bottom of Up-Mile Hill. He used to have to bike down it to get to the Barrens every time any of them went, but he hasn’t gone to the Barrens in months. Not since he was friends with --

He can’t think about them. He can’t ever - not again.

The moment he went into the store in early April and saw the guitar on the far wall, he fell in love. It was scuffed to shit and only had four strings, but it had a certain allure that Richie couldn’t ignore. The blonde 1981 Martin D-28 had a tuning peg that slipped often, but he loved it upon first play. He only knew two chords at the time, but he felt powerful with the guitar in his hands. He hadn’t felt powerful in a long time. He didn’t have enough money for it at the time, so he asked his favorite man in town and the owner of the store, Paul Keebler, if he could put it on hold for him. Paul adores Richie and gets excited every time he comes in, so he immediately told Richie he’d keep it in the back on hold for him. It was only a week later that he had his conversation with Beverly and she told him there was a stock position open at Freese’s. She suggested that it might be a good idea to get out of his house - maybe save up enough money to buy a car. A sense of accomplishment is what she called it. A steady paycheck is how Richie sees it.

As soon as he got enough money saved up, he biked down to the thrift store and threw all the money at Paul. He begged him to go get the guitar and when Paul came back out with it, he put it on the counter and told Richie to be careful with her. _She’s the only woman I’ve ever loved,_ he sighed with a wink. Richie laughed out loud for what felt like the first time in months. _Her?_ he asked. _Yeah,_ Paul responded, _her name is Mal. I played her all through college. My boyfriend got her for me back in our senior year. I named her Mal because she was bad even back then._ Richie laughed and smiled at him. He thought about telling him he’s gay as well. He thought about saying the words out loud in public. But then he’d looked around and saw his mother’s drinking buddy walking through the store with her eight year old son. She clearly heard Paul and looked at him with vague disgust in her expression before shielding her son from him and hustling to a farther aisle. Richie just smiled at Paul who didn’t even seem to notice the woman, nodded tightly, and walked out of the store with Mal in tow. He couldn’t risk being outed to the whole town - not without anyone’s support. He thought, maybe, he could handle it if he had a boyfriend or his friend group back, but neither of those were possibilities in sight. The only gay kid his age that he knew hated his fucking guts. Plus, he reasoned with himself, it’s not as if he and Stanley were romantically inclined with each other before their fallout. No, Richie has a boy already, and he holds his smashed heart in his fists. Richie hasn’t seen it in months. He doesn’t think he ever will again.

It’s been five weeks since he got Mal from Paul at the thrift store and he barely ever leaves his room. He had taken a guide to play the guitar out from the school library as soon as he got it and they haven’t seen him since. Richie laughs at the idea that they think they’ll ever see this book again. Richie has already marked it up to shit with notes and folded corners.

He thought learning the guitar would be good for his mental health and a solid distraction from his growing dystonia, but it just worsens his self-esteem. Every missed string and wrong note proves inarguably to him how worthless he is at everything, even the things he tries his best at. His grades are slipping, he’s lost his friends, he’s lost his love. He needs to be good at this. He needs to, for the sake of his painful insecurities.

He has been learning the song _Trouble_ by Cat Stevens thinking it wouldn’t be too difficult due to the fact that it’s already played on an acoustic guitar, but he was proved wrong. After practicing furiously for weeks, he has barely made a dent in the first verse, let alone the chorus. He had figured out most of the chords after listening intently to his 45 with the song on it for two weeks straight, but he still isn’t any good. The song and its lyrics have burned a hole in his brain. He thinks about it when he sleeps, he thinks about it in class, he thinks about it when he’s biking home… The words have permeated his thought process. And it probably isn’t very good that it has.

The thinks about the words _I’ve drunk your wine and you have made your world mine, so won’t you be fair?_ He feels them deep in his heart where he doesn’t allow himself to accept that he has ruined everything he once held dear.

He sometimes thinks about taking the money he gets from work and buying… something. Something hard. Cocaine, maybe. Nothing he’d need to inject, no, Richie is too squeamish for that - at least, he knows he would be at first. But he toys with the idea of anything that would help him forget everything he’s done. He wants to. He even had gotten in contact with Kyle Lawrence, a boy from his school who is infamous for dealing drugs, but he never called him back when Kyle left a message on his home phone with the code word that he uses whenever he’s gotten a shipment in. Richie knows the Losers would be disappointed in him, even if he isn’t friends with them anymore. He knows if he didn’t have the influence of Eddie telling him about all the health risks of hard drugs when they were 14 and thought about toying with them before, if he didn’t have Beverly’s voice in his head reminding him about his addictive personality, he would’ve already been down a path of self-destruction. He wonders who he’d be if he never had them at all. He thinks he’d be so much worse off.

And, fuck, he misses them. He misses them like his legs have been cut out from under him and he’s trying to learn to walk on new limbs again. He’s so much worse at living without Bill’s soft encouragement, or Ben’s sweet smile. Mike’s intensely palpable kindness and Stanley’s ability to make him believe he was loved while still fucking with him, it’s all so sorely missed. Beverly is minorly back in his life, but he’s still keeping her at arm’s length. He doesn’t deserve her and he still doesn’t know how to apologize the right way to make her trust him fully again. He remembers the horror on her face, the stony fear that could never be cracked - that doesn’t just get fixed with a casual apology. Still, the fact that he doesn’t exactly know why what he said made her so scared, but he can’t take it back. He can’t take any of it back - especially not what he said to Eddie. He wishes he never knew that Eddie doesn’t think of him the way Richie thinks about him. He doesn’t just feel like shit - he feels like a fucking fool. All the passes he made at him after the holiday party, on Valentine’s Day specifically… He can’t believe he was so blind. Eddie must’ve been so uncomfortable. He made the best friend in his life uncomfortable with these feelings he’s never been able to rationalize. Eddie must not even like boys. He feels terrible for trying to court a straight man who he adores in many more ways than romantically. He knows they’re all better off without him. He knows that.

But he still can’t seem to stop missing them all like hell.

 

* * *

 

Eddie Kaspbrak is tired. He’s so, so tired of his life.

It’s been months of avoiding the group and he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep it up. Avoiding five people who are all in your grade is harder than it sounds. He’s lucky Mike is homeschooled, or he’d have to be avoiding six people.

It’s mid-May, and he’s been avoiding all of these people since March 8th. He’s losing steam. He’s losing his resolve. He’s tired of being on a constant fog of disassociation. His friends were always able to pull him out of those moments without even trying. He misses them, God, does he miss them, don’t get him wrong. But avoiding them all, even Beverly most of the time, is easier than the alternative, what he knows some of them have been doing: taking the group in parts. Beverly, Bill and Ben are all still seen in various groupings around the school. Eddie feels like a spy, hiding parts of himself until he’s easier to swallow for the good of the world, for the good of his mother. Oh, and his mother is so pleased. _That dirty Tozier boy is out of our house_ and _that girl Beverly is bad news, honey, you know what happened with her and her father. It’s for the best you don’t see her anymore._ He’s heard it all in some variation from his mother about every single one of his friends.

Well. Old friends, even despite what Beverly insisted. Because walking through the school with your head down, getting called a queer and a flamer from across the hall every other day by Henry Bowers, none of it really screams _I have friends! I definitely have friends!_

He thinks about them all the time. Every day. Every hour.

The bell rings - school’s out. He used to meet up with the Losers, walk to Freese’s where they’d meet Mike, and then head over to the sandlot or the diner, depending on the weather. Beverly tried to convince him to come with him to the diner after they talked about Freddie Mercury at the library and she came out to Ben, but if he ever even passes Sue’s Diner, he feels nauseous. It was assumed before Valentine’s Day that they’d always be together. It was natural. It was habit. Eddie supposes as he walks out of school alone for what feels like the hundredth day in a row and trudges towards where he knows his mom is parked that those habits are all broken now.

Every minute.

It was Eddie’s mistake, really, because Richie does this every day. He sits on the statue of Paul Bunyan outside of the school and waits to get a glimpse of Eddie Kaspbrak. It’s pathetic, it’s hopeless, it’s creepy, and it’s stupid. Richie knows that Eddie wants nothing to do with him. He wouldn’t care if Richie dropped dead in front of him. Maybe he’d stop to identify the body to the police. Richie at least hopes he’d do that, but probably not. The police would just thank him and send him on his way, unaware that he almost certainly has a ring that Richie crafted for him out of gum wrappers and proposed to him with sitting in his garbage. Eddie isn’t the type to keep _trash_ laying around anyway. That’s all he is to Eddie, anyway. Trash. That’s all Richie is to anyone. At least, that’s what Eddie’s actions show. What, with him ignoring Richie after he poured his heart out on a tape he put it in his locker. Richie assumes Eddie just threw that away, too.

Every day, Eddie comes out of the side entrance of the school, avoiding where Bowers and his crew wait to terrorize people like him, and walks out to his mom’s car. She asks him how school was and he nods, never meeting her eyes. He slips into the passenger’s seat of the car and keeps his eyes in his lap as his mom drives away. Richie doesn’t approach him because he knows Eddie doesn’t want him to. Instead, he stays on the stupid statue and watches for him like a fucking stalker. So this is how it’s been every day for a two and a half months, and Richie has watched him.

Not today. No, what’s different about today is that Eddie looks up. Richie, of course, sees Eddie before he sees him, and he looks… well, not good. Eddie never looks bad, not to Richie, but his eyes are bloodshot, he’s got bags and dark circles under them, he’s pale the way he gets when he’s been sick, and his hair is unbrushed and not crafted in that perfect Eddie Kaspbrak way, hanging in his eyes a bit. He looks like he’s barely slept since the night of Richie’s party back at the beginning of March. He looks vulnerable, rubbed raw. He looks tired. Richie wants to wrap Eddie up in his favorite blanket, make him some sleepytime tea and play him songs on the guitar he’s been trying to learn in a failed attempt to keep himself busy until he falls asleep. Richie wants to take care of him. The feeling strikes him so strongly that he slips off the statue and falls to the ground, which gets Eddie’s attention.

They make eye contact, and the world feels absolutely endless, like it stretches boundlessly from edge to limitless edge, from where their fingertips hover in the air to where their eyes meet. Time stops. They don’t notice anybody moving or speaking around them. The only two people on earth are Richie Tozier and Eddie Kaspbrak and they are finally looking at each other.

Eddie’s brow creases in the middle as Richie gets up, trying not to break eye contact as he does so. What Eddie sees is a desperate, wild-eyed boy whose clothes are all wrong and whose mouth quirks the wrong way. But his warm, brown eyes remain the same as they always were, boring into Eddie as they stare at each other from across the quad. Richie’s clothes look like the ones he sleeps in, like he’s completely uncaring of his appearance, his hair is greasy, and he’s frowning miserably at Eddie. It’s a look he’s never seen before on Richie Tozier, one so miserable not even he can cheer himself up. The self-proclaimed King Of the Yucks can’t even find it within himself to smile.

So Eddie does. He does what they’re both too afraid to do and shoots him a smile. It’s small and it’s scared and it’s timid; Eddie almost breaks eye contact while doing it. But he doesn’t. He looks at Richie Tozier and he smiles at him.

And watching him smile back makes Eddie feel alive for the first time in over two months. Richie gives him a small wave, just the raise of his hand, but it’s enough. _Hello. I’ve missed you._

Eddie raises his hand in return, still smiling. _Hi. I’ve missed you back._

And then he runs. Eddie runs all the way to his mother’s car, chest heaving, lungs protesting. He has to use his inhaler on the trek there, but he makes it. He turns around right before he gets to his mother and sees Richie looking back. He can just make out his smile, that thousand-watt, mile-wide smile of his, from the distance between them.

“Eddie! What do you think you’re doing, running like that?! You’re going to fall!” his mother shouts. “Get in the car, come, come.” But Eddie doesn’t care. He’s scared out of his mind. He’s absolutely fucking terrified.

But at least he feels something.

  
When Eddie gets home, he grabs the cordless telephone, runs up to his room, locks his door, sits on his bed and stares at the phone in his hands. He knows he needs to call him. He needs to tell him everything he’s been thinking, that he misses him, desperately, that his life has been sepia toned without him and the rest of the group. He looks at the phone, finger on the buttons, ready to run his thumbs over that familiar string of numbers.

But he can’t do it. He can’t make the call. He can’t take the leap. But as he begins berating himself for his cowardice, the phone begins ringing in Eddie’s hand. He shakes as he stares at it for a little while longer and then unsteadily accepts the call.

He presses the phone to his ear slowly. “…Hello?”

“Eddie,” Richie rushes out. _Of course it’s him,_ Eddie thinks. “Okay, hi. Hi. How are you?” Eddie opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He closes his mouth again and shakes his head, even though Richie can’t see him. “Well, thank you for picking up. I, uh, you don’t have to say anything. I just… I wanted you to know that…” Richie pauses and then lets out a frustrated sigh and Eddie can almost see him running a hand through his curly hair, the way he does when he feels lost for words. “I miss you. I guess. I mean, I do, I do miss you, that just sounds small for how I feel… Do you miss me?” Eddie’s breathing has gotten labored as Richie has spoken and Richie rushes to correct himself. “No, no, sorry, you don’t need to talk. I already said that. And honestly, you missing me doesn’t affect how I feel.” _How_  do _you feel?_  Eddie’s mind screams into megaphones, loudspeakers, but he can’t even bring himself to open his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Richie breathes, and it sounds holy, like a prayer. “I’m sorry for everything. For the party, for… for being a coward. For only being able to talk to you over the phone. I’m sorry that I’ve been watching you come out of the school at the monument every day since the party. It’s just… it’s the only chance I get to see you. I don’t know if the others have seen you, Eds, because I’ve completely isolated myself. I’ve felt fuckin’ awful for the way I acted, but I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know what to say to you or to Bev or to Stan or to anyone. It was all a massacre, a bloodbath, and it was all my fault.” Richie sniffs, and, God, he’s crying. He’s really crying. Eddie wishes he were there with him to give him an ounce of comfort, but he can’t even gain the courage to speak. “All of this is my fault. Your bloodshot eyes… seeing Ben look so haggard… Bev and Bill’s breakup -- ”

“Mmph!” Eddie lets out a muffled cry through his closed mouth, and Richie hears it, chuckling a bit wetly.

“Yeah, they split up,” Richie sighs. “I just… I feel like all of it is because of me. I wish I was never a part of the club at all because then you all would still be hanging out. You’d still be together.” Eddie wishes he could tell him that it wasn’t entirely his fault. That he shouldn’t blame himself. That he is just as guilty for the destruction of the beautiful thing they all had. That there is no group without Richie Tozier. But he can’t. He can’t speak. He’s so afraid that more than he bargained for will come out as well, because all he can think is a constant loop of I love you, I love you, I love you. He isn’t sure how he means it, but he knows he’d have to figure it out if he let the words that have been trapped inside him for so long out into the world, into Richie’s hands.

“Well, I guess that was all I wanted to say. I hope you’re good, Eds. I want you to be good. I want you to flourish, even if it’s without me -- us. Even if it’s without us. I hope you’re happy, Eddie. I… I miss you. Okay. Bye, Eds.”

 _“Richie!”_ he shrieks and Eddie hears a sharp intake of breath through the receiver.

“Hi, Eds.”

“I miss you, too,” Eddie rushes out, faster than even he usually speaks. And with that, he promptly hangs up, wide-eyed and shaking. Richie looks down when he hears the dial tone, and he smiles as he removes the phone from his ear, smiling at it. _I miss you, too,_ he mouths, a breath of renewed hope alive in him.

Eddie’s breathing is labored and he reaches for his inhaler even though his mother isn’t around, taking a puff, the familiar feeling of the air hitting his lungs a relief. He immediately dials Beverly’s number, just as familiar to him as Richie’s or his own.

“Marsh residence?” Dammit, her aunt.

“Hi, Auntie. It’s Eddie Kaspbrak. May I please speak to Beverly?”

“Eddie!” Shirley Marsh squeals. “Eddie, darling, it’s been too long since I heard that friendly voice of yours. Let me go get Beverly for you, oh, she’ll be just delighted.” Eddie hears some shuffling, and then Beverly yell out _“Eddie?!”_ before he hears her voice entirely through the speaker.

“Eddie? Eddie Kaspbrak? Are you really back from the dead?” Eddie gives a weak smile to his lap.

“Hi, Bevs,” he says miserably, and Beverly coos.

“Oh, sweetheart, what happened?” And Eddie begins wailing. She shushes him through it, occasionally offering comforting words of affirmation, until he eventually calms down.

“I’m so sorry, Bev. Ugh, I haven’t spoken to you since the library, and the first thing you hear from me is my crying. I’m the shittiest fucking friend…” Beverly laughs.

“Honey, I’ve seen you around the school. When you came around, and I knew you eventually would, I had a feeling this conversation wouldn’t be very pretty.” Eddie laughs wetly, blowing his nose with a tissue by his desk.

“Oh, Beverly. What happened?”

“To me?” she asks incredulously. “I’ve been just fine, Eds.”

“You broke up with Bill. Richie told me.”

“Well, first of all, we’re definitely going to talk about _Richie told me,”_ Beverly vows, and Eddie groans. “And second of all, yeah, Bill and I broke up. It was 100% mutual though, and we’re still just as close as we were before, if not more. We just realized that we were together because we loved the group, and it felt right to be together, natural. But if we’re only together - if we only want to be together - when the group is whole and happy, then we’re really just dating the group, aren’t we?”

Eddie giggles. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. That makes sense. I just -- am I responsible, Bev?”

Beverly hums. “Honestly? Partly.” Eddie groans again, this time louder and longer. “Cool off, kid, it was a good thing we broke up. We did it partially hoping going back to the way things were would somehow draw the group back together, that it would make the rest of you go back to normal, too.”

“Well, that didn’t really work out as planned, I guess,” Eddie sighs. “I’m sorry, Bev. How’s Bill taking it?”

“Oh, Bill suggested it. I wholeheartedly agreed, of course. As I said, mutual. Very mutual. But we still love one another deeply and fully and that will never change. He’s still Bill Denbrough, you know?” Eddie smiles. He does know. Or, at least, he remembers. “Don’t be sorry, sweetie. We’re alright. How are you?”

Her heart shatters like glass when she hears a whimper from the other end of the phone. “Oh, Bev, it’s all wrong -- ” he gasps, and she can hear him trying to suck in air as he pants helplessly. “Wrong - everything’s wrong -- ” he cries, and for the first time in her life, Beverly Marsh doesn't know what to say. “Since the party, nothing has been right. I miss everyone.”

“We miss you, too, Eddie,” she swears softly, and her heart breaks further when she hears him sniffling.

“No, it's not the same, Bev -- I-I can’t breathe -- ” he chokes out, and Beverly’s stomach drops.

“Where's your inhaler, honey? Do you have it?” she says quickly, but Eddie cuts her off sharply.

“It's not that, Bev - I can’t breathe in this _house_.” His voice shakes and Beverly has to cover her mouth to stifle a sob of her own. She knew that not seeing each other was wearing on all of them in different ways, but she should have known just how deeply it was affecting Eddie, how much spending every waking moment he isn't in school in his house under the watchful eye of his unbearable mother has been killing him. “Nothing’s been right since the group disbanded -- ”

“It’s not disbanded!” Beverly says, sounding as if she is trying to convince herself as much as Eddie. “We’re just taking a break!” Eddie scoffs.

“Yeah, right,” he snarks miserably, and a tear rolls down Beverly’s cheek. “I just… I miss you all. I miss Richie, God, I hate that I miss Richie…”

“You're allowed to miss Richie, sweetie. He's your friend,” Beverly says softly, treading lightly into this territory, unsure.

“You know it's more than that,” Eddie offers up simply. “It's different with us. It's not that I’m better friends with him than I was with you, it's just -- we’re more. We’re more than I can explain. I don't even understand it…” If Eddie didn't sound so fucking sad, Beverly might have laughed. Even so, she can't keep a small smile from stretching across her face.

“Maybe,” she says gently. “Maybe you like him, Eds…” This is the first time any of them have really broached the subject with either of them; she remembers suggesting it a while ago to Eddie - right before Richie’s party, in fact - but that feels like a lifetime ago now. They’re both much different people than they were only a few months ago.

“What - like a crush?” It’s said with venom and vitriol.

“Didn't you say… Before the party…?”

“Yeah, I-I’m…” he whispers, trailing off, afraid his mother will hear even though he knows she’s gone to the store for groceries. Beverly knows what he means even though he can’t say it. He knows he’s using his mother as an excuse even to himself. The truth is, admitting again it feels impossible. “But not for Richie, right?” It's said so small, so scared, that Beverly’s eyebrows pinch together, her face contorting as she attempts to fight off the tears she could feel collecting on her eyelashes.

“Eddie, honey, that isn't up to me,” she whispers sadly.

“Who… Who…?”

“You, Eddie,” Beverly promises sweetly. “Your feelings for Richie are entirely and completely up to you. They’re something that I, nor Richie, nor even your mother can control. It’s up to you to decide what you want from this, and then to go out and try to get it.”

“But… what if he doesn’t like be back, Bev?” This time, Beverly cannot contain her laughter, but it’s not malicious or cruel. Instead, it’s kind and fond, and Eddie finds himself smiling despite himself.

“Oh, Eds,” she smiles. “If Richie Tozier doesn’t like you back, I don’t think I understand anything about love at all.”

  
Richie Tozier is certain he likes Eddie Kaspbrak. He’s known that for a long time. But he isn’t sure he understands shit about it. Or Eddie himself, for that matter. The boy is a confusing mess of contradictions and anxieties, and Richie has hopelessly fallen for everything he can see of him. But every conversation, every interaction, every non-verbal grunt over a telephone, it all sends Richie reeling. None of it makes sense. Love makes absolutely zero sense, if you ask Richie.

So he asks Bill. Bill knows about love - the man is an artist and a writer and a hopeless romantic. All those folks always know everything about love. Richie also trusts Bill Denbrough more than he trusts anyone, most especially himself.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Georgie! It’s Richie!” He hears Georgie gasp over the phone, and a smile grows on his face.

“Richie! How are you doing, Richie?” Georgie screeches.

“Good, Georgie! I’m alright! How are you, pal?”

“I’m great! I made a new friend at school. His name is Ralphie and he’s funny and always shares his pencils if I need them. He has this really cool dinosaur pencil case and -- ”

“Georgie, who are you talking to?” Bill asks in the background, and suddenly, everything is alright.

“It’s Richie, Bill! I don’t talk to strangers,” Georgie responds. Richie grimaces and feels his heart race at the mere idea of Georgie talking to a stranger. Eugh.

“That’s great, buddy! Can I talk to Richie? You can say goodbye though, if you want,” Bill offers.

“Okay, Billy. Bye-bye, Richie. Have a good day! What are you gonna have for dinner?” Before Richie can even think about his answer, Georgie is barrelling on, and Richie smiles, glad he doesn’t have to explain that he’ll probably warm up a TV dinner because his mother is working late again. “I’m having macaroni-cheese! Mommy told me when I got home from school with Billy. I can’t wait!”

“That sounds yummy!” Richie says. “I hope it’s good, buddy.”

“Thanks, Richie! I miss you, will you come over and play soon?” And Richie’s heart breaks. He never thought about the implications of isolating on the rest of the group, but especially not Georgie. He had no idea the boy would even miss him. That anyone would.

“Yeah, pal. That sounds great, actually,” Richie replies, more serious than he’s been in months. He truly would love to hang out with Georgie; all of the Losers love Georgie, but Richie loves Bill like he’s a brother, like family, and so Georgie is, by proxy, the same to him.

“Okay! Here you go, Billy,” Georgie says, his voice fading away.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Bill. How do I learn about love?” Bill laughs loudly. “Is there a movie I can watch? Hopefully with Tom Hanks?”

“Well, _S-S-Sleepless In Seattle_ is a great romantic co-comedy…” Bill hums.

Richie groans. “Sounds dumb, I’m already bored. Can you just teach me about love instead, Billy Boy?”

“Which type of l-love, Richie? Romantic or… p-p-platonic?” And, oh. He may not be very good at reading between the lines, but he can see where Bill is going with this.

“Maybe I’m not so good at either,” Richie murmurs, and Bill clicks his tongue.

“M-Maybe not, but you’re w-wi-w-willing to learn, it seems,” Bill says, and Richie smiles. Maybe he is. Maybe this phone call, maybe reaching out to Eddie, to Bill, it’s all progress. Richie doesn’t know anything about love, but he does know that he wants to know, and that’s a step in the right direction, he thinks. The smile in Bill’s voice is proof of that.

 

* * *

 

Eddie looks for Richie every day after school lets out by the monument now, and every day, he’s there. Standing strong against the backdrop of Derry. Dependable. He looks a bit like Superman, standing there with the wind billowing in his stupid patterned shirts. Eddie always fashioned Richie to be more like Spiderman: a kid detective, on the run from his past and himself. But maybe, as time goes on, Richie is maturing. Richie is learning. Richie is becoming the person they always thought he could be.

Henry Bowers certainly is not.

Eddie usually goes out the back way to avoid Bowers and his gang, but still see Richie by the monument. Today though, Henry catches him by the back doors.

“Are you running, flamer?” Henry jabs. “Why are you running?” If only he knew that Eddie feels like he’s always running from something.

“I’ve gotta get home, Henry, please,” Eddie says, continuing to walk without looking at Henry.

“To _mommy_? Yeah, I bet. I bet _mommy_ loves you in those tiny little shorts. You going home to play Easter with mommy? I bet you still believe in the Easter bunny,” he laughs wickedly. Eddie doesn’t even deign to give him a response, knowing anything he says will be used as bait, but apparently, his silence is enough to have Henry believing what he wishes he didn’t. “You still believe in the Easter bunny, Kaspbrak? Are you 16 or 6? God, are you even trying to hide the fact that you’re a faggot? With these shorts and the -- ”

Suddenly, Henry Bowers is spinning on his feet and falling to the ground. Eddie gasps as Henry cries out in pain, holding his jaw. Eddie looks up to find none other than Richie standing in front of him, shaking out his hand. And now, he looks a bit like Batman, shoulders hunched against the stormy skies of Maine, standing up to villains but thinking he’s the villain himself. And then it hits Eddie: Richie punched Henry Bowers. Richie is terrified of Henry Bowers. Richie looks up at Eddie through his eyelashes, tense but unafraid, and then back down at Bowers.

 _“Do not go near him,”_ Richie says intensely and slowly, drawing out every word as Henry writhes on the ground, _“ever again.”_

And then, with one last look at Eddie, he nods at him and walks away, but not before looking back and spitting out the word, “Asshole.”

Eddie wishes he could say he went after Richie, he spun him on his feet and kissed him senseless in front of everyone they know. That’s what he wanted to do. Instead, he does what he knows he does best: he runs.

He runs, not towards his mother, but towards the statue of Paul Bunyan standing on Derry Central’s main campus, where Richie has been standing all spring. He jumps up on the monument and searches through the crowd. And then, when he finds what he’s looking for, he calls out.

“Richie!”

Richie turns from where he’s curved over his cradled hand and looks to see Eddie standing on his statue, the statue he’s been using to find him for months. And Eddie used it to find _him_. Richie looks at him, tilts his head, quirks his eyebrows and smiles. Eddie smiles back.

Eddie realizes then that they have to meet. All of them. Just once more, even if none of them agree to it. He has to at least try. He needs to know if this is really over or if there’s still a bit of heroism left in all of them.

 

* * *

 

Eddie’s trying to work up the courage to call all of the Losers, he really is. And then, he looks at his calendar in the morning on an innocent Saturday in May and he realizes with a weighted thump on his shoulders that today is May 19th: the 10-year anniversary of his father’s death.

Eddie sits on his bed and stares at his calendar for a long, long while. He loses track of how long he sits there. The letters and numbers and lines start to blend together, and he begins to wish they would all just disappear, the door would fade into space and he wouldn’t have to face this dreadful day.

He’s certain his mother won’t go to the graveyard with him. He stopped asking her around year six. But this year, he’s going to ask. He has to. Ten years is just too important. So he slips off his bed and paces around the room for a moment, taking deep, measured breaths so he doesn’t work himself into an anxiety attack. He slips on a pair of pajama pants and a large shirt and goes downstairs, muttering to himself the practiced speech he has been working on when his mother stops him in the hallway.

“What are you whispering about?” she accuses, eyes narrowed. She’s coming out of the bathroom, which Eddie didn’t expect. What Eddie thought would happen is he would go into the kitchen, see his mother preparing breakfast, and calmly ask her if they could visit his father’s grave tomorrow. Instead, caught off guard, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Dad’s dead,” he says, and they both wince. So, off to a terrible start, then. She walks back toward the kitchen, ignoring his statement entirely. He follows her. She’d already been making pancakes before he’d run into her in the hallway. “I mean, you know Dad’s anniversary is today. I wanna visit.” Still silence as she inches a pancake off the griddle, checking to see if it’s browned. She frowns, turning the stove up higher. “Mom, please. I can’t go alone and I want to go see him. We never go.” She checks again and lets out a little ah as she flips the pancakes onto the plate next to the stovetop.

“Better eat up, Eddie Bear, before it gets cold. Would you like strawberries with it? That’s your favorite,” she offers without making eye contact, walking the plates over the the small kitchenette. Eddie sighs, knowing that the peace offering of strawberries is as close to an apology as he’s going to get.

“No, thank you, Mom,” he says. “Can you hold on a minute? I have to go make a call.” She opens her mouth to argue with him and then shuts it again, relenting as she flicks her hand, sending him away. He goes into the living room and dials the number that is still familiar, even after all these months. There is seven rings, and then, Eddie hears him, rushed and out of breath, but still home, always Eddie’s home.

“Tozier residence?” Richie prompts.

“Hi, Rich. It’s Eddie.”

 _“Oh,”_ Richie breathes, voice full of so many emotions that Eddie couldn’t possibly name them all. He settles on grateful. “Hi, Eddie.”

“Hey. So, I know we haven’t spoken, like, properly spoken, in a really long time. And I know this is kind of out of the blue. But the 10-year anniversary of my dad’s death is today and my mom refuses to go with me to the graveyard. Like, Richie, she won’t even fucking _talk_ to me about it. She won’t even look at me when I bring it up,” Eddie says quietly but urgently into the phone, praying that his mother doesn’t hear him, pressing the receiver tightly to his face so Richie can hear him clearer. Because he does this, he hears Richie make a tiny, wounded noise. “So, and you can totally say no, but I was wondering if you were willing to go with me? I-I don’t think I can go alone…”

“Oh. Oh, of course, Eds,” Richie says, voice insistent, and Eddie breathes a sigh of relief. “Yeah, definitely. What time do you want me at your house?”

Eddie smiles even though he’s absolutely miserable because Richie Tozier is the same old boy he used to know: still willing to go to the ends of the earth for the people he cares for. “Maybe noon?”

“Sounds good. Oh, and, Eds?” Richie asks, and Eddie pulls the receiver back to his head. “I’m sorry. I said that before, but… I’m sorry.”

His smile grows wistful as he nods. “Me, too. Thank you, Richie. And, hey. Don’t call me Eds.”

“No guarantees,” Richie teases. Eddie can almost hear Richie’s wink and his stomach flips.

_Click._

Eddie puts the receiver back in its charger and he wipes the smile off his face before sitting back down with his mother to eat the pancakes she made them. She doesn’t ask who was on the phone and he doesn’t tell her.

As he showers, getting ready for the cemetery, he thinks about why Richie punched Henry Bowers, why Richie said yes when Eddie called, why he even called Richie at all. They’re all valid questions. Richie punching Henry Bowers could be explained away by Richie’s lifelong streak of heroism. But it also begs the question: why was Richie watching Henry Bowers? Or was he watching Bowers at all? Which one of them was he watching, Bowers or Eddie himself? Eddie thinks he knows the answer, but it’s too scary and the magnitude of it is too great and powerful to think about, so he moves onto the next question: why did Richie say yes when Eddie called?

 _Well, maybe, idiot, he still considers you his friend,_ Eddie admonishes to himself, frowning deeply. Eddie knows he still considers every member of the Losers’ Club his friend deep in the cell of his heart where he refuses to go, but he’s not sure if the time spent apart or the fight they’d witnessed at Richie’s birthday party had split them all up for good. And that thought is too frightening to imagine, so he moves onto the last question: why did he call Richie at all?

Why hadn’t he called Beverly or Bill or any one of his other friends? Why had he chosen Richie in particular? Beverly shares a common link of her father’s passing, sure, but he also knows her father’s death brought her mixed feelings and Eddie wasn’t sure when he was thinking of people to call that he wanted to bring up those raw, vulnerable emotions like that. He knows that wouldn’t be fair. Just because he’s hurting doesn’t mean he can go and hurt another friend.

Bill was the next logical option of course, but Bill has always been like a father to him in the way he treated him, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to bring up the feelings of bringing a father figure to see his real father the first time he’s visited his grave since he was eleven years old.

So he called Richie. But Eddie knows, deep down, that Richie was always his first choice. Richie is so much like what Eddie remembers of his late father: spontaneous, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, rude and crass with just a hint of caring and affectionate. He knows there was never a choice. It was always going to be Richie. Richie Tozier is an inevitability.

As he towels off and dresses himself, he realizes, shit, he only has five minutes before Richie is supposed to be here. Luckily, Richie Tozier is notoriously late for everything, so he’s not as rushed as he would’ve been with any other person he could’ve made plans with.

Of course, exactly five minutes later, the doorbell rings.

“Shit, shit,” Eddie chants, throwing t-shirts all over his floor as he searches for the exact shirt he wants. “A-ha!” he crows, throwing on the Metallica tour shirt that he’d found in his basement years ago that had belonged to his father over his jean shorts. He knows his mother would have a cow if she knew he has it, so he throws on a sweater on top of it so his mother doesn’t see.

“Eddie! Your rude friend is at the door!” his mother calls from downstairs. Eddie barks out a laugh, only guessing the myriad of things Richie could’ve greeted his mother with.

“Coming!” Eddie shouts, bounding down the stairs. He runs through his house and stops short at the door to find Richie dressed in the baby blue suit he’d worn to Stanley’s bar mitzvah. It’s a bit too small on him at this point considering his intense growth spurts in the last two years, and the sleeves and pant legs are too short, riding up to reveal his wrists and ankles. His hair is kempt and combed and he looks so damn young.

Eddie laughs so that he doesn’t cry. Richie dressed up for this. He’s such a good friend, and it shatters Eddie’s heart into pieces to realize all he’s lost.

“What?” Richie asks, confusedly looking at Eddie’s street clothes. “Are you not ready?”

“No. No, I’m ready. My dad wouldn’t want me to come in a suit. It’s so sweet that you wore one, though,” he smiles warmly, trying to keep the fondness out of his voice, and Richie smiles back. “Um, I have an idea. Wait here for a second.”

Eddie bounds back up the stairs and grabs his stereo and stuffs every mixtape Richie has ever made him into his backpack, all except the one still in his Walkman, the untitled one Richie gave him a few months back. All the mixtapes Richie’s ever made for him turns out to be a shit ton and his backpack is really fucking heavy by the end of it. He walks past his mother’s room at the opposite end of the hallway, the door slightly ajar and the room dark. He knocks lightly and peaks his head in. He can’t see her fully, but he can make out her shape in her bed.

“Mom, I’m going out for a little while,” he says quietly. “I’ll be back later.”

She doesn’t answer him and doesn’t ask where he’s going. Eddie gives a forlorn look towards the inside of her room before closing the door. He heads back downstairs and leads Richie out the front door by the small of his back. Richie can feel the touch burn him through the three layers of clothing he has on.

Richie gives him a quizzical look when he sees the heavy backpack and the stereo peeking out. “We goin’ to a disco?”

Eddie smiles and shakes his head, closing his eyes. “Just shut up and pedal, dumbass.”

Eddie grabs his own bicycle and together, they race down the street towards the graveyard. They have to go through town to get to the cemetery, and Richie stops before they make it there, jumping off his bike suddenly and ditching it in the middle of the sidewalk, not even bothering to put up the kickstand. Eddie skids to a stop and throws out an arm.

“What are you doing, Tozier? This thing weighs a billion tons.”

“Just give me a minute, Eds,” he promises, going inside Nino’s Pizza. Eddie smiles at the storefront confusedly as Richie makes a transaction and Nino sides a pie over the counter for him. Richie walks back out and shakes the box.

“For lunch,” he explains simply. “I got pepperoni and sausage: both our favorites combined!” Eddie grins at him, shaking his head.

“Okay,” he says quietly, unsure of how else to respond.

They have to bike slower due to Richie balancing the pizza with one hand, but they make it there, and they park their bikes outside the cemetery. And suddenly, Eddie is nervous.

No, scratch that, he’s freaking the fuck out.

He hasn’t been to visit his dad since… well, since he became a person, if he’s going to put it bluntly. He doesn’t exactly know what to tell him, how to explain to him why he’s been gone so long. He’s sure his father is watching over him and all that shit, but not going to his gravesite for ten years? Isn’t that sort of unforgivable?

He looks sharply at Richie and he can see the fear in Eddie’s eyes, so he puts the pizza box down on the gravel and grabs ahold of Eddie’s shoulders. “What’s wrong, Eds?”

“I’m scared. It’s been too long. What if he hates me?” Eddie frets, almost vibrating under Richie’s hands, and Richie wishes he knew what to do at times like these, when Eddie panics.

“He doesn’t hate you, Eddie. I’m sure he doesn’t. Why didn’t you visit?” Richie asks, voice low and smooth and comforting.

“My mom didn’t want me to. She wouldn’t go with me,” Eddie answers, eyes scanning the graveyard. “I-I don’t even know where his gravestone is. Isn’t that sick? I don’t even know where my own fucking father’s gravestone is.”

“It’s okay, Eds. Come on, let’s go look for it and then we can listen to some tunes and eat pizza. It’ll be a regular ol’ party!” he crows in a 50s businessman Voice. Eddie cracks a smile and nods.

“Okay.”

They go walking through the aisles, and the longer they do so, the more peaceful it becomes. The backs of their hands brush every so often and every time they do, they look at each other and then sharply look away blushing like schoolchildren. Eventually, Richie is the one to spot it.

“Hey, Eds? Was his name Shawn?”

Hearing his name again is like a shock to Eddie’s system. It always is, even if it’s someone else’s name, or heard in passing from a stranger. But from Richie’s lips, said with trepidation and reverence, it sounds holy.

“Yeah. It was.” Eddie rounds the aisle and looks at the gravestone and there it is. His father, set into stone.

 _Shawn Edward Kaspbrak_  
_September 2nd, 1958 - May 19th, 1982_  
_“We could be heroes.”_  
_Beloved father and husband_

Eddie lets out a long breath and stays silent for a long time before he begins shaking. Richie shrugs off his suit jacket quickly, lays it on the ground behind them, puts the pizza box down beside it, and then grabs Eddie’s hand, clapping their palms together and holding on for dear life. Eddie feels a tear escape as he sniffs and rearranges their hands so that their fingers are laced together. Richie smiles at the gravestone but doesn’t dare look at Eddie right now, terrified of what he’ll find - he can barely deal with his own sadness, let alone someone else’s.

“Hi, Dad,” Eddie whispers before letting out a quiet sob, curling in on himself.

“Hey, hey,” Richie murmurs. “It’s alright, Eds. Come on, let’s sit you down.” He holds Eddie in a strong embrace, easing them down onto the jacket he set down for them. “We’re gonna have to bring a blanket next time.”

“Next time?” Eddie sniffs, looking up at Richie. They’re pressed close together, Richie still holding onto him, and Richie has half a mind to let go, but he’s not sure that’s what Eddie needs right now, so he holds fast even though he’s terrified.

“Well, sure. We’ll come back and visit. I’m sure he’d like that, wouldn’t you, Shawn ol’ boy?” Richie asks, patting the grass in front of the gravestone. Eddie smiles at him weakly.

“You’d come back?”

“Well, hold your horses, Eddie my love, we just got here,” Richie chuckles. Eddie gets butterflies despite himself at the nickname. “Now, let’s get set up! Which tape would you let to listen to? Richie’s Fun Times Songz? Richie’s Cool Down Tunez? Richie’s Pump Up Jamz? Richie’s Sexy Feelings Bopz?” Richie offers, reading out the titles as he sifts through the tapes.

“Wow, you really know how to name a mix, Rich,” he notes sarcastically and with a note of bitterness, thinking back to the one mix he left behind, sitting untitled in his Walkman.

“Hey! My mixes are legendary, Bev says so!”

“Well, if Bev says so,” Eddie teases, and then they both abruptly remember that they’re both supposed to no longer be friends with Beverly. “Um. How about Cool Down Tunez?”

“Your wish is my command,” Richie says in his Jeannie Voice, dropping the others in the bag, putting his hands together and nodding his head sharply. Eddie laughs, glad Richie’s bad humor can still make him forget about his problems.

 _“I Dream Of Jeannie_ is from, like, the 60s, Richie. Get some topical references,” Eddie says as Richie slips the tape into the stereo and presses PLAY.

“Oh, I’ll show you topical,” Richie teases darkly, voice edgy with humor, and he knocks Eddie down and tickles his ribs as _Africa_ by Toto begins playing. Eddie laughs loudly, startling a pack of birds in the birch tree beside them, glad they graveyard is mostly deserted except for the bumptious family on the other side of the lot.

“Get off me, asshole! You total douche, you know how ticklish I am!”

“I do, and I absolutely love to abuse that knowledge,” he says, cackling as he digs his finger into Eddie’s stomach.

“Okay, beep beep, Richie,” Eddie asserts and Richie chuckles, pulling his hands away and putting them up in surrender.

“Alright, truce,” Richie says as Eddie sits back up. There’s a long pause as the music plays on. Eddie has no idea what to say. Does his father know nothing about him? Has he even been watching? Does he care?

_It’s gonna take a lot to take me away from you  
There’s nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do_

“So… What was he like?” Richie asks, opening the pizza box, pulling out a slice and offering it to Eddie.

“...What?”

“What was your father like?”

Eddie stares at Richie in awe and wonder as he takes the slice almost on autopilot. He shakes himself mentally as Richie takes a slice for himself, folding it in half and taking a large bite. “I, uh. He was a bit of a punk, if I’m honest.”

“Really?” Richie asks, shocked, through a mouthful of food. Eddie makes a face at him before continuing.

“Yeah. He, uh, he got into trouble a lot when he was young. He couldn’t ever sit still is what I remember most from my memories of him. He was always bopping around, jittering. He, uh, he smoked a lot before me, but he quit when I was born. He was… kind, though. He really loved my mom and I.”

“Can I ask a question?” Richie says after a pause. Eddie nods, motioning for him to go on with his pizza. “It says beloved father and husband on here, but not son. Do you know why?”

“Oh,” Eddie says, weighted with emotion. “Yeah. His parents disowned him.”

“Woah,” Richie says, looking away from Eddie and back at the headstone. “That’s heavy.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know why?”

“Not in detail,” Eddie says, frowning. “He did a lot of bad stuff as a kid, as I said. My mom loved him despite it and so did his sisters. My parents met when they were in high school and she kind of… well, he describes it in his letter to me as ‘saved him.’”

“Letter?” Richie asks, brows furrowing.

“Yeah. He wrote me a letter kind of describing a bit about himself and his life, what he wants from me when I grow up.” Richie nods.

“He sounds like a fucking badass, if I’m honest,” Richie comments, taken aback.

“Yeah, I know.”

“It’s kind of shocking to think of the Mrs. K I know and love to fuck today with a guy like that.”

Eddie levels him a dark look before losing energy and sighing. “Me, too…” He leans forward on his palm and touches the engraving of his father’s name gently. “Me, too.” Richie inches his hand toward Eddie’s and rests his pinky overtop of his, desperately hoping the comfort comes off as casual and Eddie can’t tell that his heart is beating out of his chest. Eddie smiles at the gravestone, slides his hand fully underneath Richie’s so that his entire hand is underneath his now, but says nothing. Richie thinks the butterflies in his stomach can fuck right off because they are not welcome right now.

_Hurry, boy, she’s waiting there for you…_

“So, I, uh…” Richie starts, chuckling lightly. “I’ve never really been to a graveyard before, so I don’t know particularly how this goes, but do you… do you wanna talk to him?” Eddie gulps audibly. “You don’t have to!” Richie rushes out anxiously. “I just know you said you haven’t been here in a long time, so I was just wondering. It’s okay if you don’t, though. Or if you want me to… go… while you do -- ”

“No!” Eddie shrieks a bit too loudly for it to be socially acceptable in a graveyard. The family at the end of the lot looks up. Eddie blushes and ducks his head, embarrassed. “No. Please don’t go.”

“Okay,” Richie whispers. “I won’t.”

They stay silent for a long, tense minute that has Richie’s skin crawling until Eddie finally speaks, staring at his father’s name etched in stone.

“Hi, Dad.” Eddie shakes his head. “That sounds so stupid. And probably trite after so long of being gone. I don’t know if you still watch us or anything, but Mom… she didn’t want us to come. I’m sorry we didn’t…” Eddie begins to tear up and pulls a travel pack of tissues out of his backpack in case he needs them. “I guess when you talk to a dead person, you’re supposed to tell them about your life. I know you’d want me to talk about Mom, but… she and I don’t really get along, Dad. I’m sorry. God, I’m going to be apologizing a lot, aren’t I? She changed a lot after you passed. She… She got controlling, I guess is the best word for it. But I don’t wanna talk about Mom. I wanna talk about my friends.”

Eddie smiles shakily when he pictures them all. He thinks of Mike’s photo album and flips through the pages in his mind’s eye, as he’s done many times since Richie’s birthday party. “They’re incredible, Dad. You would love them, especially Beverly. She’s this firecracker of a girl, always popping off about something. She’s my best friend, I guess you could say. But really, they’re all my best friends, even though we don’t really talk much anymore.” Both Eddie and Richie wince as he says this, but Eddie presses on regardless. “And then there’s Mike. He’s the most stable one out of all of us. He’s this beacon of light. Like, he just shines, Dad. And Stanley… He’s brave as all fuck, honestly. He inspires me all the time. He came out to us as gay over the summer and he… It really made me want to be a braver person. He believes in God and it makes me really wish I believed in something like that. Something bigger. I guess my God is you.” Eddie says this casually and then startles at the truth of it. When he prays he never finds himself thinking about an almighty God or Jesus or angels or saints. He thinks of his father. He laughs a bit, disbelief coloring his tone, and continues.

“And Ben, he’s the newest addition. He saved my life, Dad, so you can thank him for me not joining you early.” Richie stifles a laugh at this. Eddie hears his huff of breath and smiles without looking away from the grave. “He’s the sweetest person I’ve ever known. He’s a bit shy, but when he’s comfortable, he’s so snarky and always rags on me for the shit I say. And Bill…” Eddie sighs dreamily. “He’s perfect, Dad. Like, I wouldn’t be surprised if he were a fallen angel or something like that. Since you… Since you left, he’s been kind of like my father. He protects me and watches over me and takes care of me like you did. He’s quiet and anxious, but he’s the most loving man I’ve ever known. He’s so fucking precious to me. I love him more than anyone.”

Richie smiles as he watches Eddie come alive and become more animated the longer he speaks about them all. The Eddie he’d seen on the way to the graveyard had been muted, pained, hurting. It looked similar to the Eddie he’s observed over the last few months: in mourning, grieving. Eddie has lost a lot in his life. Richie hopes he gets some of it back.

“And then there’s Richie, of course.” Richie’s heart all but stops in his chest. He hoped Eddie would talk about him to his dad when he started listing off his friends, but he’d never assume, especially considering he’s sitting next to him. But Eddie doesn’t even seem to notice or remember Richie is sitting next to him at all. Richie, however, feels his palm burn from where his hand is still covering Eddie’s. “He’s so fucking annoying, honestly.” Eddie laughs, but it isn’t a harsh or cruel noise, and Richie closes his eyes briefly and smiles. “I mean, I’d be lying if I said I weren’t annoying, too, but that’s neither here nor there. And if I am annoying, Richie makes me that way. He riles me up, he… he gets under my skin.” The words would’ve been casual if not for the harsh whisper Eddie says it in, and Richie begins to sweat underneath his starchy, white collar. “He’s a really good person, though. Aunt Maya likes him. You would, too, I think.”

Richie smiles bashfully at the headstone but doesn’t give any other physical indication that he heard Eddie. He’s barely moved at all. He knows Eddie wants him there, but he feels like a voyeur listening to this one-sided conversation. It’s not a pleasant feeling, but there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than supporting Eddie in this moment. He would do absolutely anything Eddie asked of him. This is just further proof of that undeniable fact.

“And me,” Eddie chuckles sadly. “I guess I should talk about me. I don’t really talk about myself very often. I could talk about my friends all fuckin’ day, but when it comes to me, I… I don’t really know what to say. I’m boring, I guess. Average at school. Nervous a lot of the time, about almost everything. I’m loud when I’m allowed to be. Who I really am, I mean, is loud. Not at home. Not with Mom. But with my friends, I like pulling pranks and causing a ruckus. I’m a normal kid, I guess, underneath all the stuff Mom puts on me. I like riding my bike and going to the movies and cursing and screaming and running and -- ” _Boys._ Eddie cuts himself off with a choked gasp, realizing he was about to come out to his father’s grave. Richie’s hand shifts on top of his and squeezes lightly. _And Richie,_ he thinks. _I was about to come out to Richie._

And then, he realizes, what’s the harm? There’s no one around who will judge him. Just grass, stone, bones, his father’s memory, and Richie Tozier. He’s the least worried about the last of these passing judgement on his sexuality. Richie, of all people, would never view Eddie’s sexuality to be as dirty as Eddie does. Richie himself is gay. He would have no qualms about it, Eddie is certain of that. They’re long past the tenuously romantic thing they had just after the holidays. So with a deep breath, he squares his shoulders and stares at the inscription on the headstone.

_We could be heroes._

“Boys,” he says, both quiet and with more conviction than he’s ever heard in his own voice. “I like boys.” Richie’s hand clutches his then out of shock, nearly flattening it with the force of it. Eddie looks up to the clear, blue sky and closes his eyes. _I like Richie,_ he thinks. It’s the first time he’s allowed himself to think those words with that meaning, but it doesn’t particularly shock him. Eddie’s known he’s liked Richie for a long, long time. Almost as long as he’s known that he’s gay. It doesn’t hurt like he thought it would, though. It doesn’t scare him. It fills him with a sense of pride. His first real, admitted crush is Richie Tozier, the boy who would end the world to help his friends, who would share his ice cream with Eddie even though Eddie already had an entire cone and who Eddie would do the same for, who would come with him to a graveyard on a Saturday afternoon even though they haven’t spoken properly in months. _Yeah,_ Eddie thinks. _Pretty good first crush._

“I hope that’s okay,” he says, a bit more trepidatiously, and Richie wants to scream that it is. He wants to tell him how brave he is, how special and adored and treasured he is to Richie, to their friends, to his father. He doesn’t, though. He stays silent and doesn’t allow the truth to come out because the truth, the whole truth, the truth said with sincerity, is something Richie avoids at all costs, even and especially when it’s most important.

But then Eddie looks at him, fear in his eyes, and Richie can’t help but give him a nugget of honesty.

“I’m so proud of you,” Richie smiles. “And yes. It’s very okay.”

Eddie lets out a breath that he feels like he’s been holding since age 12 and smiles back.

“Okay.” Eddie turns back to the gravestone and tilts his head consideringly. “I know it’s asking a lot, Dad, but it would be cool of you to, like… give me me a sign that you’ve heard me. That you’re listening when I talk to you. That it’s okay.”

They wait in silence for a moment, and then the leaves begin rustling in the apple tree above them. They both look up and then a breeze comes by, tugging a few green leaves off the tree and sending them floating down to the earth. Eddie watches them as they sail through the air. One. Two. Three. He smiles gratefully at the tree and nods.

“Thank you.”

Richie knows they’re effectively in a field, and that it always gets windier in open spaces. But a chill still runs down his spine regardless.

Eddie lays down on Richie’s jacket and looks at the other boy’s back. He reaches out to touch him, to see if the vest he’s wearing is really made of silk, or maybe just simply to touch him, Eddie isn’t sure. Either way, he pulls away before Richie notices.

Richie lays down beside him after a while and they watch the birds fly by, the crabapples sway, the clouds move and change. Richie usually detests silence, but he thinks this is actually pretty nice. Richie thinks he might be able to get used to silence, as long as Eddie’s there to share it with him.

Eddie listens to the song playing through the speakers and smiles, even though he doesn’t recognize it. He feels real for the time time in a very long time. Healthy and real and alive.

 

* * *

 

They’re all walking in the forest on the first hot day in June, per Eddie’s request. He’d told them he heard there was a cool view in the woods somewhere, and you could see so far, you could almost catch a glimpse of the ocean. None of them believed it, but they figured it was better than sitting in their homes in front of a fan. Better than being alone.

The real reason was concocted by Eddie in a mad attempt to get to see Richie again and, more importantly, get everyone more comfortable around each other after the party from hell. He needs to see Richie because he hasn’t said more than twenty words to the boy that weren't in a graveyard in months, which is the most amount of time the boys have gone without speaking since they met. It’s killing Eddie and he needs to know if it’s killing Richie in the same way. From the way Richie has not made eye contact with him once since they entered the forest, he doesn’t know for sure. Richie always wears his heart on his sleeve, so this aloof behavior is unlike him and it’s destroying Eddie’s ability to function normally. Does he crack a joke? Does he push Richie around? He feels lost at sea.

And he needed to see everyone else because they’re family to him and he doesn’t feel right without them, even if Beverly thinks they’re dysfunctional and Richie won’t even talk to him.

Deep down where the part of them that is scared the club is breaking up lives, they all said yes because it was Eddie who asked. Eddie, who has been mostly radio silent to all of them. Eddie, who had exploded at the party and said the thing to Richie that nearly killed him. Eddie, who can’t see the feelings that have been staring him down for years, begging them to stare back.

None of them have seen one another as a whole since the party at Stanley’s back in March. It had been a mess and they had all silently decided to split off into the little, bite-sized pieces of the group that each other could handle. As Beverly had said, maybe they’re just plain bad for each other.

They’re not really talking very much and things are tense. Ben, Bill and Beverly have been hanging out with everyone separately and with each other, not really knowing what to do or how to fix any of this. That small group is dysfunctional as it is, all of them feeling as though something’s off, something’s missing, when they’re together. Mike has drifted back to his home at the farm outside of Derry, knowing that the family gets harder to care for in the wintertime. Stanley has been left bereft and broken without the tether the group kept on his sanity. Eddie has been avoiding everyone since March. The only people he’s seen are Beverly in small, bite-sized doses and Richie the few nuclear times. Eddie remembers the party, the fact that Richie just shut down, and wonders where it all went wrong. And then there’s Richie, who has been left wondering why he isn’t good enough for Eddie Kaspbrak. He thinks maybe he was living in a pipe dream to imagine he was, to imagine that they even had a shot. Richie has no idea in hell how to fix it without being Trashmouth, so he stays silent because Trashmouth ruins things and so does Richie.

Stanley believes they’re about half a mile in the forest when it happens. They’re all walking across a log that has fallen over a rushing river. Mike suggests they turn around or find another way to cross it, but Richie just calls him a pussy and hops on, the rest of them following. Stanley is the last one to go across, so he is able to see it when Eddie starts to lose his balance, but Stanley doesn’t have the speed to catch him, and Eddie falls into the river below them with a screech that makes them all breathless.

 _“Eddie!”_ Stanley cries, trying not to lose his own sense of balance as he turns to watch the splash of Eddie’s body crashing into the water. It looks like glass shattering. Everyone’s heart stops beating for a suspended moment in time.

And Richie doesn’t even think - he just dives straight into the rushing water from the log above.

 _“Richie! No!”_ Beverly shrieks. All of them begin calling out to him, but it’s far too late. Richie is already in the water, searching for Eddie who he knows is the worst swimmer out of all of them because his mother refused to let him take lessons, hailing the water is too dangerous. The rest of the group hurries off the log with as much grace as possible, trying not to fall in as well, and they run to the edge of the water, calling out for Eddie and Richie to come to them. Richie manages to grab onto a rock, steadying himself as he looks for Eddie. And then he sees his arm come out from under the water, and Richie is pushing off from the rock and diving below the river’s rushing current.

Richie finds Eddie’s flailing body after the longest fifteen seconds of his life under the river, trying to get his head above water but unable to. Richie then sees that Eddie’s shorts are caught in a vine under the water, trapping him. Richie swims over as fast as he can, letting the current drag him to Eddie, and makes quick work of undoing Eddie from the vine’s grasp. He ends up ripping Eddie’s shorts, but he succeeds, and Eddie floats to the surface.

As soon as Eddie breaks the water’s surface, he begins screaming, and it sounds like it’s being ripped from him. Richie swims the short distance between them and grabs onto him by the waist. Eddie immediately clings onto Richie’s shoulders with one arm, leaving bruises from grabbing onto him so tightly, and the other is hung loosely around Richie’s neck, like he’s being careful with it. Eddie is crying so hard his body is wracked with it and Richie is trying to drag them both to dry land when he sees a flash of red and hears the shouting of their friends coming closer. When they make it to the water’s edge, he tries hoisting Eddie up to the grass, failing, and his anxiety peaks, knowing the current is dragging them both downstream rapidly. Suddenly, Eddie is taken out of his arms. He sees, in the flash of their struggle, Mike and Bill dragging Eddie up to safety and then there’s two pairs of arms around his body as well.

Richie and Eddie flop onto the grass and Richie knows Beverly and Ben are asking him if he’s alright, arms still around him from where they grabbed him out of the water, but all Richie can hear is Eddie’s sobbing. He pushes everyone out of the way and crawls over to Eddie’s body, lying prostrate.

“Are you okay? Darling, are you alright?” Richie asks, voice strained as his hands flutter over Eddie’s body, checking for cuts and bruises. Eddie has a gash from a rock on his leg from where he got snagged in the vine, and he’s clutching his arm tightly, squirming as he moans in agony. Richie himself has a deep cut on his head, perhaps from when he jumped into the river, but he doesn’t even register its dull ache.

“It hurts, Richie, it hurts, why the fuck does it hurt so bad?” Eddie chants from the ground, breathing hard and still crying, gasping for air in a way they’re all familiar with; he needs his aspirator.

“Sweetheart, you need your inhaler, is it in your bag?” Richie starts reaching for the pack around Eddie’s waist, but Eddie is thrashing so much that Richie can’t get to it. Richie doesn’t know exactly where Eddie’s hurt and doesn’t want to grab him to make him stop moving, but doesn’t know what else to do.

“Eddie. Look at me,” Richie says, voice full of authority, gingerly touching Eddie’s cheeks with his palms to get him to make eye contact with him. Eddie’s terrified eyes seem to laser-focus on Richie then. “You have to stop moving for a second and let me get your inhaler, you can’t breathe, baby.” Richie can barely register what he’s saying, working entirely on autopilot. He just knows he needs to get Eddie to a hospital, and soon.

“I’m sorry, I -- it just _hurts_ ,” Eddie whimpers, gasping in the break between his words. “Please, please get it.” He lays as still as he can while Richie reaches around in his soaking wet bag for the inhaler. He finally finds it, grabbing it and shaking it out, getting what little water that got in the mouthpiece out, before gently placing it in Eddie’s mouth. He pushes down on the trigger and for a brief, maddening moment, Richie is reminded of the bathroom at Stanley’s house in March. Eddie sucks in a breath, holding it, and all of them wait, suspended in time.

Eddie breathes out and so do the rest of them. He’s still crying though, and Richie absolutely loses it. All of the anxiety and fear he’s had in his body for the last few minutes, the last few months, it seeps out bit by bit as he cries.

“Goddamnit, Eds, you fucking -- you had me _so fucking scared.”_ And then pulls Eddie’s whole upper body into his lap and cradles him to his chest, hugging him gingerly. Eddie doesn’t waste a moment and curls into Richie, both of them sopping wet from head to toe and absolutely terrified. Eddie curls his good fist into Richie’s shirt and lets his pained arm be hidden safely in the parenthesis of Richie’s body. He tucks his face into Richie’s neck and lets out an unsteady breath, a small whimper coming out as he settles himself in Richie’s arms.

The whole group says nothing, falls completely silent as they watch this take place. Everyone is in some sort of state of shock at the last five minutes. They almost lost Eddie for shit’s sake. But now? Richie is very much cuddling a completely drenched Eddie and none of them saw this coming. They knew Richie liked Eddie, of course, that was common knowledge between them all at this point. Richie kissed him in Stanley’s basement, he punched Henry Bowers in the face, he held Eddie as he slept on the way home from the beach. But, shit, Richie _loves_ Eddie. That is now completely undeniable. Most of them are shocked by this information, but not Bill and Beverly. They just look at each other and share a private nod. They’re going to need to make a game plan once this is all over.

Richie holds Eddie to his chest and slowly runs his hand through the boy’s wet hair, pushing it back from his eyes so he can kiss his forehead over and over again, not knowing if what's hitting his neck are tears or just water. His own tears have subsided, being comforted by holding a mostly safe Eddie, but he’s too afraid to look at Eddie because he knows if he sees him with tears in his eyes, then Richie will start to cry again as well.

“You’re okay,” Richie says as Eddie sighs, the puff of air hot against Richie’s neck. “You’re okay.” Richie’s not sure who he’s saying it to, Eddie or himself.

“I’m gonna g-g-go-go get h-help,” Bill says, standing up. Beverly follows wordlessly and when she gives them all a wide-eyed look, they all rise as well. Stanley glaces worriedly at Eddie and Richie, but they don’t even see it as the group walks out of the forest and leaves behind the quiet gasps of Eddie and Richie.

“God, Eds, I don’t know what I would’ve done if-if -- ” Richie cuts himself off, a choked cry coming out of his mouth. “Jesus, this is so fucking embarrassing.”

“Nothing happened, Richie,” he says, touching Richie’s face when he sees tear tracks. “I mean, besides my arm. You saved me. Why didn’t you go get help like the others wanted you to?”

Richie looks at him for a long moment and then brushes his dripping hair out of his eyes. “I couldn’t let my little gumdrop be washed away,” he whispers, and then immediately regrets it at Eddie’s downcast gaze. His voice was filled with kindness and affection, no accent or falseness, but the words weren’t what he meant at all. He shakes his head, trying to clear away the fear and the defense mechanisms. God, it shouldn’t have to be this difficult to be honest. “I couldn’t let anything happen to you while I was around. I’d never forgive myself, Eddie.”

“But it wasn’t your fault.”

“I made everyone go across that stupid log. And besides, it would’ve taken too long to get help. I know you don’t swim too great, so I just… I don’t know, I just acted, I guess. No thoughts popped into this ol’ noggin except get Eddie out now.”

“My hero,” Eddie coos, but Richie can see the truth in his eyes when he says it. What Richie doesn’t know though is how Eddie fashions him to be a superhero of sorts, a mix of so many different characters that he holds dearly to his heart. He’s Peter Parker and Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne and Wade Wilson all rolled into one. He’s a kid scorned but who still holds peace in his heart. He’s a powerful, intense creature whom none of them know if is truly human. He’s a vigilante borne from loss, longing for justice for those who have lost as well. He’s a burned spitfire who never lost his spark, his tongue or his anger. And Eddie thinks maybe he’s his own type of superhero, jumping into rivers to save boys he treasures, beating down enemies with one swift punch. He’s Eddie’s hero.

Eddie smiles at Richie, watery and loving, and Richie pulls him back into his chest, petting his wet hair with an unsteady hand, even though they’re both shivering from the intense changes in temperature. He just needs to hold Eddie for a little while longer, that’s all, he tells himself. Just a little while longer and maybe the shaking in his hands will go away. Just a little while longer and maybe he can will the pain Eddie feels to subside. Just a little while longer and maybe he can forget the way it felt to hear Eddie scream and not know if he’d be able to stop it. Just a little while longer and maybe they’ll start to feel like kids again.


	5. Summer, 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> going back home is harder than it seems when the foundation of the house is fundamentally cracked.

Stanley, Beverly, Ben, Mike and Bill are all running through the forest trying to get to the road. They’re on autopilot. _We need to help Eddie,_ is all they’re all thinking. _We need to help Eddie._ It’s only once they get to their bicycles all ditched in the road leading from the Barrens to the main road that they realize they have no plan.

“Okay, Bill. You’re up. What the fuck are we gonna do?” Beverly pants while staring at him, already mounted on her bike. They all turn to Bill and he realizes that he is up. They all have always turned to him in moments of panic. But he hasn’t seen all of these faces in one place in months. He’s off his game. He doesn’t remember what it’s like to be needed. But if there’s any feeling Bill Denbrough loves more than anything, one of the only he feels truly comfortable in, it’s being needed.

“We get to a phone and we call an ambulance. Then we’ll call Sonia. In that order,” Bill says, stutter completely gone. His voice still wavers with anxiety despite this.

“Okay,” Mike nods. “That’s what we’ll do, then. Where do you think is the closest phone?”

Bill mentally scans the map of Derry he keeps in his head. “There’s a payphone in the M-Memorial Park.”

All of them grimace. The Standpipe Memorial Park isn’t their favorite place - they don’t like the story associated with it, as no one in town does, but none moreso than Mike Hanlon. It’s the site of The Black Spot, an old nightclub whose patrons were mostly black soldiers in the 60s. It was burned to the ground by the Maine Legion of White Decency. It makes them all sick to realize that most people are not at all decent.

Bill braces a hand on Mike’s shoulder. “I know. But we’ve gotta - it’s basically right across the st-str-street. C’mon, we gotta help Eddie.”

Mike breathes out slowly and then nods. “For Eddie.”

They bike to the park and ditch their bikes, all fallen to the ground aside from Stanley’s who trails behind to put his kickstand up carefully. Bill immediately picks up the phone and calls 911. They allow Bill to be the one to speak even though his stutter returns full-force and Bill is so, so grateful that they trust him to lead with a trembling fist and a shaking voice. As soon as they tell him that they’ll dispatch an ambulance immediately, Bill hangs up and they watch him as he struggles to dial Eddie’s home phone number. They all know this conversation will not go well, but Bill believes this is the best way to get Eddie in the least amount of trouble, so they do as well.

“She would be f-f-furious if she found out after the fact. She’d freak out w-way worse.” They all nod, but it seems Bill is just talking to himself and doesn’t even register their assent. He shakes his head quickly and finishes dialing.

“Hello?” Sonia Kaspbrak’s shrill voice comes through the receiver after the second ring, and Bill winces just at the sound of her voice.

“Hello, Mrs. Kaspbrak, this is Bill Den-Den-Denbrough,” he says as calmly as he can muster. “Eddie’s fallen and he’s hurt his arm.”

 _“Oh! Eddie!”_ she cries, and then suddenly her voice goes from high-pitched to low and threatening. “Where is he? Where’s my Eddie?”

Bill wants to scream. He wants to tell her that Eddie was never hers to begin with. Instead, he simply says, “The Barrens.”

And then she hangs up. Bill shakes his head slowly, angrily, and then slams the phone down onto the receiver. “C’mon. I want try to beat the a-am-ambulance.”

They don’t. The ambulance whizzes past them when they’re about a block away from the entrance they use to get into the Barrens, but they also haven’t seen Sonia Kaspbrak’s station wagon go by yet either, and they’re glad for that. They roll up to the scene to find the ambulance parked by the side of the road and Richie and Eddie’s shaking forms huddled together under the same blanket inside the boot of the ambulance answering questions. They all drop their bikes and run up to them.

“Guys!” Beverly calls. They look up and smile wanly. “Did you walk out here?”

“Yeah. I, uh…” Richie glances at Eddie and then back at his friends, “carried ‘im out here.”

Bill curses. “We shouldn’t have just l-l-l-left. We should’ve brought you guys o-o-out here, too. Fuck.”

“It’s fine, Bill,” Eddie says softly, cradling his arm underneath the blanket. He glances up at Richie and smiles. “We did fine.”

“Okay, boys. I’m going to bring you to Derry Home Hospital, and from there, you can -- ” They all stop talking as a car screeches to a stop in the middle of the road before them. Eddie’s eyes widen and he looks to Bill worriedly.

“Bill, you called -- ?”

“It would’ve been w-w-way worse if she was notified and you were already hospitalized, Eds. I’m s-so-sorry -- ”

“Eddie!” Sonia screeches as she throws the door open to the station wagon and leaves it ajar. “Eddie Kaspbrak! Where is Eddie?!”

Eddie sighs quietly and Richie tightens his hold on his shoulder. “I’m here, Ma!”

Sonia runs towards them with a tear-stained face, clouded glasses, hair a mess with curlers falling out of it and still in her pajamas. Eddie wants to hate her. He wants to hate her so badly. He doesn’t.

A paramedic is instructing Eddie to lay back on the stretcher and telling him that he’s going to strap him in, it’s just protocol, when Sonia rushes up to them. Eddie doesn’t look at her and quietly tells the paramedic that he only wants Richie to ride with him.

“What is that boy doing in there, Eddie? This isn’t allowed! You, get him out!” Sonia screams, pointing wildly at the inside of the ambulance where Richie is crouched over Eddie. “I will drag you out of that car by your hair, Richard Tozier, don’t test me.”

Richie looks from Sonia who’s now calmly being spoken to by the other paramedic on the scene, quiet words like it’s alright and ma’am, you need to calm down, and down to Eddie. He watches Eddie’s lower lip quiver, sees the fear in his eyes, and makes up his mind before Eddie can even whisper, _“Please stay.”_

Richie looks back up at Sonia, eyes burning and challenging. “Fucking do it, Sonia, I _dare_ you.”

“Ma’am, Richard is going to come with us to the hospital as a precaution. He needs to be looked at as well and there is only enough room for them in the car. You can follow behind us if you’d like -- ”

“Yes, I _would_ like, thank you very much,” Sonia hisses as the doors to the ambulance slam shut and close Eddie and Richie inside with the paramedic, still asking them both routine questions as if Eddie’s screaming mother isn’t a bother to her at all. Richie makes eye contact with Sonia out the back of the car where she’s standing, breathing heavily with her fists clenched, and he flips her off with both hands and a harsh glare. She screams in anger and storms off to her car as they pull away. Richie breathes out in relief when she’s gone and then looks down to Eddie who’s staring up at him bleary-eyed.

“I’m scared,” he whispers, lower lip shaking. Richie reaches for Eddie’s good hand where he’s strapped down as the car lurches forward and the siren begins wailing. Richie squeezes his hand.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Me, too.”

They both know they’re going to have to deal with Sonia when they get to the hospital and there won’t be any paramedics to run interference then, but Eddie isn’t thinking about his mother, and neither is Richie. They’re both thinking about the pain in Eddie’s arm.

In the car on the way to the hospital, the paramedic in the back with them looks at the gash in Richie’s forehead that he hadn’t even realized he had from hitting a rock when he dove into the water. She determines that it isn’t too deep and that he won’t need stitches, so she tells him to wait in the waiting room for a nurse to help him clean it and bandage it - he won’t need to stay in the hospital like Eddie does. Richie is just glad Eddie isn’t paying attention for favor of talking to the second paramedic who is explaining to him what will happen when they get to the hospital, that they’ll have to set his arm.

When they get there, Richie and Eddie are split apart. Eddie cries when they wheel him away from Richie who is standing ashen in the waiting room, watching him with a watery, hopefully encouraging smile and heartbroken eyes. _Your fault,_ is all he’s thinking. _It’s your fault he’s hurt. You hurt him over and over and you can’t even make up for it. You just keep doing it. You’re a fucking asshole, Richie Tozier._

 _“Richie Tozier!”_ Sonia screeches the second she gets into the waiting room, marching straight up to him with fire in her eyes. “Where’d they take him? Where’d they take Eddie?”

“He’s in the back. He’s fine without you, Sonia,” Richie sneers. Sonia gasps, affronted, and then her glare intensifies.

“You think you’re in pain now? Just wait. You’re never going near my Eddie ever again,” she promises, voice low and threatening. She sneers around a smile, but it’s twisted, and it looks almost evil. “I know all about you, Richie. I see the way you look at hi--”

“Fuck you!” Richie screams, bearing down on her from the several inches she has on her. “You don’t know what Eddie wants or needs and you certainly don’t know me. So fuck you!”

“Nurse! Nurse! This man is attacking me!” Sonia cries, cowering in the face of Richie’s anger. Richie looks shocked at her outburst for a moment before scoffing.

“I’d never touch you, Sonia. I wouldn’t _dirty my hands_ like that.” Richie smiles self-satisfied as Sonia looks even more terrified. The nurse behind the desk rushes over to them.

“Richard, are you causing trouble for this nice lady?” she asks, worriedly.

“I’m not causing trouble and she certainly isn’t nice,” Richie says, rolling his eyes. The nurse touches his shoulder blades, leading him to the desk.

“C’mon, we’ve gotta clean you up. I’ll call a nurse and then you can go home.”

“I’m not leaving him!” Richie cries, ripping himself out of the nurse’s hands. “I’m not going to leave Eddie, okay?”

The nurse points to the other nurse behind the desk to go talk to Sonia and then frowns at Richie. “Richard, please. Make this easier on us, alright? We’re just trying to do our job.”

“Fine,” Richie sighs, hanging his head. “You’re right. I don’t mean to be a nuisance.”

“You’re not, sweetie. We know you’re scared for your friend.” Richie nods and then tunes into what the other nurse is telling Sonia. He ascertains that she has to wait in the waiting room for a while and they will tell her if anything changes in his status. She demands to know how he is and the nurse says she doesn’t know. Sonia scoffs, mumbling about how this hospital is a piece of crap. Richie rolls his eyes and flips her off again, more discreetly this time. No one sees, but it still feels good.

Richie finds out after they clean him up that Eddie passed out after they set his arm. They don’t tell him, they tell Sonia, but Richie is listening hard from the other side of the room where he’s sulking miserably. They tell a crying Sonia that she can wait for him to wake up in the hospital room they’ve obtained for him. They lead her out and she tells them in a shrill, angry voice that Richie isn’t allowed to see him. Richie springs up when he hears this.

“That isn’t your call, Sonia! It’s Eddie’s!”

“I make the decisions for Eddie from now on,” she spits, rounding to face him. “I should’ve never let him out with you hooligans today.”

“God, get some better insults, Sonia. Hooligans? Is this the 40s?” Richie crosses his arms and rolls his eyes hard.

“Come on, Mrs. Kaspbrak,” the nurse says quietly, shooting Richie a sympathetic look. Richie just collapses in the uncomfortable chair, arms still crossed, legs splayed and a scowl on his face.

“I’m not leaving,” he mutters to no one. “I’m not gonna leave him.”

  
When Eddie wakes up, it’s to his mother’s face looming over him. He’s disoriented from the pain medication they’ve pumped him with and starts crying immediately.

“Mommy, where am I?” She coos at him in a way that should be comforting but just makes Eddie shrink into the bed further.

“It’s okay, Eddie Bear. You got hurt playing with your friends and you’re in the hospital.” Eddie’s eyes widen and his gaze shoots to the IV in his arm.

“No,” he says, voice foreign to even himself. “No. I can’t be here. Get me out of here, Mommy, I can’t be here. Mommy, I can’t be here!”

“Shh, Eddie, it’s okay. It’s okay.” She reaches over to hug him gently but he pulls away, thinking about her words. His friends. His friends are here.

“No! Where’s Richie? Is Richie okay? Where’s Richie? I need him, Mommy. _Rich?!_ Richie?” The soft, serene smile on Sonia’s face at the idea that she was needed by Eddie, that he is incapable and she is now necessary to his survival, drops immediately at Richie’s name on his lips.

“Richie’s gone, sweetie. He didn’t want to wait for you,” she says with faux-empathetic eyes.

“No! I have to call him, I-I need him.” He starts reaching for the phone, but before Sonia can stop him, a nurse comes in.

“Oh, good, Edward, you’re up. Your pal will be glad to know that.” Sonia turns immediately to glare at her but the nurse pays her no mind, obviously used to Sonia in the time that Eddie had been passed out.

“What -- Whaddya mean? Is Richie ‘ere?” he slurs hopefully. She nods with a smile as she begins checking his vitals and Eddie turns to Sonia with sad eyes. “You lied to me, Mommy. I needed Richie and you lied to me. I want you to leave,” he says quietly, looking down at the clean, white cast on his arm.

“No, Eddie Bear, I can’t leave. I need to stay with you,” she says, trying for patient but verging on desperate.

“No, you don’t!” Eddie shrieks, and both Sonia and the nurse startle. Eddie doesn’t even register their shock. “Leave! You lied to me. I want you to leave and I want Richie!”

“Eddie, you’re making a scene,” Sonia hisses. “Quiet down and stop this tantrum this instant.”

“Ma’am,” the nurse says once she’s written down Eddie’s vital signs in his chart and hung it up. She turns to Sonia, back stiff and eyes hard and demanding. “You need to leave.”

“No! I’m his mother! He’s just being an insolent child!”

“Ma’am, Edward is not a child and he can decide who stays in his hospital room. Either I’m going to escort you out or security will.” Sonia looks between Eddie and the nurse with fire in her eyes. She screams in anger and storms out of the room. The nurse turns to Eddie and she looks so sympathetic that Eddie feels most of the tension leave his body.

“Want Richie. Can you go geddim?” Eddie asks quietly. The nurse nods and leaves as well. Eddie is half-asleep when Richie comes rushing in.

 _“Eddie?_ Eddie!” He stops short the the side of the bed and Eddie blinks his eyes open and smiles at him dreamily.

“Mmm. Hi, Richie.” Richie smiles warmly at him and grabs his unbroken hand tightly.

“Hi, Eds.” Richie collapses in the chair that Sonia has just vacated and leans his head gently on the side of the bed. His voice sounds wrecked when he speaks again. “Hi.”

There’s a bit of silence while Richie catches his breath. When he looks back up, Eddie startles.

“Richie! You have a cut! What happened? Are you okay? Alright, alright, how many fingers am I holding up?” Eddie holds up the hand that Richie isn’t still clutching onto.

“None. Your arm is broken,” Richie smiles. “Or did you forget?”

“I didn’t forget,” Eddie growls, dropping it back down gingerly. “I’m worried!”

“It’s fine, Spaghetti darling,” Richie laughs fondly. “Just a nick. Didn’t need stitches or anything.”

“Are you lying?” Eddie asks, peering at Richie closely. “My mommy lied to me and I don’t want any more liars in my room.”

“I’m not lying! Honest, dude.” He holds up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“You’re not a Boy Scout. You would make a terrible Boy Scout,” Eddie giggles.

“That’s… absolutely true, yeah, I’d make a terrible Boy Scout.” Eddie laughs, and despite the fact that it’s merely a couple of hiccups, it makes Richie’s whole body feel warm. _He’s okay. He’s okay._

“Missed you, Richie,” Eddie sighs, head flopping back onto the pillows as he gazes fondly at Richie. “I missed you. I missed you so much…”

“It’s okay, Eddie, you don’t need to -- ”

“Just shut up and let me look at you and tell you how much I missed you. ‘Cause I did.” Richie leans back in the chair and throws out his arm.

“Well, by all means!” he crows.

“Quit it!” Eddie giggles. He sobers far too quickly to be considered normal and Richie almost snorts. “No, don’t quit it. You’re so funny, Rich.”

“Am I?” Richie asks, an eyebrow raised carelessly.

“Mhm,” Eddie sighs, lovestruck. “Funny Richie.”

“God, I wish I had a video camera or something. Where’s Homeschool when you need him?”

“No, you don’t. You told me when we were little that you don’t like to share me. I ‘member,” Eddie says proudly.

“Mm, you’re right,” Richie smiles, “I don’t.”

They grin dopily at one another for a while until Eddie recovers the memories from the river.

“That was scary…” Eddie frets, wringing Richie’s hand nervously. “I was really scared.”

“I know you were, Eds,” Richie frowns worriedly. “It’s alright now. You’re safe.”

“I know. I got you.” Richie nods, his smile returning.

“You do. You definitely do.”

“Mmm…” Eddie closes his eyes lazily.

“You tired, Eds?” Eddie nods, but then his eyes fly open and he looks at Richie with glee.

“You called me darling!” Richie’s body suddenly grows hot and he looks away quickly.

“I’ve called you that before,” he shrugs in what he hopes is nonchalant. Eddie points at him, shaking his head with a broad smile.

“Nuh-uh! Not like that! You called me other stuff, too!”

“Whatever…” Richie scowls, leaning back in his chair, knowing he’s been beat. He looks back over at Eddie whose grin just keeps getting bigger. Richie smirks. “You liked it.”

“Shut up!” Eddie squeals, blushing. Richie sits back up excitedly.

“You did! You liked it!” he teases. Eddie shrugs violently, but says nothing as he looks up at the ceiling innocently. Richie laughs and leans his chin on the roll guard, just watching Eddie as he counts tiles on the ceiling. He loses count several times and has to start over, mumbling under his breath. He tires of this quickly though, and his eyes settle closed once again. Richie doesn’t take his eyes away from him for a second, afraid if he does, Eddie will be screaming out in pain again, or disappear from view completely. He feels like he’s stealing this moment, that he’s not allowed to hold Eddie’s hand due to all the mistakes he’s made. He wonders if maybe he’s the one dreaming.

When he thinks Eddie has fallen asleep, he whispers in prayer into the otherwise quiet room. “God fucking dammit, Eds, you really fucking scared me.”

Eddie shifts slightly and speaks slowly without opening his eyes while Richie’s cheeks burn from the fact that Eddie is still awake. “M’sorry.”

“No apologies, Eds. I’m just glad you’re alright,” he sighs. Eddie smiles softly and nods his head.

“‘M glad you’re alright, too, ‘Chee.” Richie watches him in slight awe as his smile fades and his mouth drops open slightly, most definitely asleep now. Richie shakes his head, unwilling to speak and risk waking him up, but he can feel himself falling even more deeply in love with Eddie with every second that passes by them.

  
Stanley demands that his mother drive him to the hospital the second he gets home from the Barrens. There’s no question in his voice, no room for discussion - he is going to find a way there whether Robin drives him or not. She frowns and tells him he might want to shower before they leave. Stanley looks down at his dirt-covered clothes and grimaces. He agrees and spends 45 minutes in the shower, scrubbing every inch of himself off with care and a meticulousness that clears his head temporarily of the anxiety that had been clouding it. He puts a clean outfit on when he’s finished and then goes back out to his mother, asking if he can go visit Eddie now. She touches his cheek softly and nods.

When Stanley gets there, he notices Sonia in the waiting room, stewing angrily, but sees no sign of Richie or Eddie. He rushes up to the front desk and quietly asks to see Eddie Kaspbrak, worried that Sonia will hear him and tell him he’s not allowed in. The nurse nods and the second she tells him Eddie’s room number, Stanley takes off down the hall with a speed that would make Ben and Eddie proud.

He skids to a stop in front of Eddie’s door and opens it quietly. He peers inside and finds Eddie asleep on the bed with the machines whirring and beeping beside him and Richie sitting in the otherwise silent room holding his hand and watching him. Stanley is certain that he’s never seen Richie Tozier sit so still in the 11 years he’s known him. He watches them for a bit, watches as Richie smiles softly at Eddie when he mumbles nonsensically in his sleep and his thumb sweeps slowly across the back of Eddie’s hand. It heals something in Stanley that he didn’t know was still broken to see Richie be so gentle and sweet with someone they both love so deeply.

Stanley slips in and closes the door softly. He sits beside Richie and neither of them speak for a while despite the fact that Richie looks over at him briefly and acknowledges his entrance before looking back at Eddie. They both watch their friend sleep restlessly, twisting uncomfortably. They’re both sure he’s having a nightmare, but neither of them move to wake him up just yet, knowing he could probably use the rest.

“You could’ve gotten really hurt going in after Eddie the way you did, you know…” Stanley says, voice reedy and very quiet.

“As long as everyone’s okay, I don’t really care what happens to me,” Richie shrugs. Stanley shakes his head quickly.

“We care. We wouldn’t be okay if you weren’t.” Richie turns to him, head titled consideringly.

“Really?” And they both know what he’s asking: still - after all this time? Stanley nods resolutely.

“Yeah. Fucking really.” He lays his head on Richie’s shoulder, as if to say I care. I still care.

“Missed you, Stretch,” Richie sniffs, trying to keep the thickness out of his voice from his unshed tears.

“Shut up, Tozier.” They both smile.

“Love you.”

“Yeah… Me, too.” It’s quiet again as they listen to Eddie whimper quietly, watch him toss and turn while Richie holds steadfast onto his hand so he doesn’t move the IV in his arm. Richie doesn’t ask Stanley to explain himself, to tell him what happened on Valentine’s Day, but Stanley feels as if he owes him an explanation regardless.

“Richie, I’ve… Things got really shitty for me,” Stanley says quietly. Richie quirks his eyebrows in confusion, but says nothing. “I was, uh… Back over the winter and ever since then, I’ve got… I dunno, these thoughts in my head that I can’t make go away. Not like the obsessive ones; I’ve been dealing with those my whole life. These were new and it scared me - I didn’t know how to deal with it. I still kinda don’t, but I took it out on you and that was really fucking shitty of me, and I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

“Okay,” Richie nods, mind racing. “Wh-What kind of thoughts, Stan?”

Stanley sighs. He hadn’t been planning on telling anybody about how dark the hole he’s been in is, but this is Richie Tozier. If anybody won’t pity him or be scared for him, it’s him. He might even understand.

“Suicidal thoughts.” Richie resists the urge not to suck in a sharp, hurt breath just by the skin of his teeth. “I, uh… Yeah. My therapist calls them ideations. I’m still not sure I know what that means, really, but… I’m not gonna really do it I don’t think. But it feels like I might sometimes.”

“Did you… Did you…?”

“Try? No. I got close a couple of times, set out… stuff… But I didn’t…” Stanley looks away, suddenly uncomfortable. “I kept thinking about how ugly your face is when you cry and I didn’t want to do that to the residents of Derry.”

Richie snorts and then sniffs hard, wiping his face with the dirty sleeve of his jacket. “Fuck.”

“Yeah. Also, that’s gross. There’s a tissue box right there, Rich,” Stanley sighs, pointing to the side table beside the bed. Richie shrugs.

“What would I be if I wasn’t gross?” Stanley rolls his head on Richie’s shoulder.

“Who even knows,” he says quietly, but it’s said with such fondness that Richie feels warm all over again despite the pit that’s formed in his stomach from Stanley’s confession.

“You won’t, right?”

Stanley shrugs. “I’d call first.”

“No,” Richie says, voice hard and steely. He wraps his free arm around Stanley’s shoulder tightly, and Stanley feels like he’s somehow holding him together. “You won’t do it at all. Ya fuckin’ can’t, Stanley.” He breathes out slowly. “We care. We wouldn’t be okay if you weren’t here. You have to know that by now.”

Stanley snorts disbelievingly and shrugs. “You’d survive.”

“We fucking wouldn’t,” he responds, quietly but with such intense insistence that Stanley almost believes him for a moment. “I’m not gonna tell you it’d be stupid, because you know that. I’m just going to tell you that you can’t.”

“What, like you’re suddenly the boss of me? Like anybody has ever been able to control me…” Stanley scoffs.

“Stanley,” Richie warns. “I’m not trying to control you. I’m tryna tell you that I’d go outta my fuckin’ mind. Alright? That’s it. Case closed - I’d absolutely lose it.”

Stanley feels a heaviness in his heart that he can’t explain in words at the thought of Richie dealing with his death, of any of them dealing with it. He doesn’t want to make them have to, but he also has a warring thought process screaming at him that he’s too tired, that giving up is the only option anymore. He feels like every second of the day, he’s fighting against an impulse he can barely control. He sighs.

“I’m sorry…” Richie shakes his head quickly.

“No. Don’t ever fuckin’ apologize to me for telling the truth or just feeling. I’m glad you told me. I’m… fuck, I’m sorry if I did anything to make it worse.”

Stanley nods and smiles. “It’s okay, Rich.”

And it is. It finally is, if only for a moment.

  
Beverly and Bill drive up to the hospital together. Neither have been able to visit Eddie yet, Bill due to the fact that Terri nor Zack could drive him because they couldn’t get a sitter for Georgie and Beverly couldn’t call out of her job at the Derry Townhouse because she just started working there as a receptionist. Richie had called Auntie and told her that he wouldn’t be able to work his next few shifts. He scrambled for an excuse good enough and told her that his brother got hurt. He felt sick as he said this, but he doesn’t know Auntie too well and didn’t know how she would react to him calling out for a friend when he just started working there in April.

Beverly and Bill come up to Eddie’s hospital room and knock lightly, pushing the door open to reveal Richie sleeping in the chair beside Eddie who is snoring and muttering unintelligibly. Bill smiles softly at them while Beverly snorts loudly. Richie shakes awake at the noise and looks around, bleary-eyed. He spots Beverly and Bill in the doorway and smiles at them.

“Hey,” he says softly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “You here to switch out?”

“Yeah,” Beverly says, helping him out of the chair. Richie stretches extravagantly and nods. “You can go home, you know. Auntie can bring you back.”

“Nah,” Richie says easily, smiling sleepily. “What would I do without the jello the nurses keep feeding me? I’d probably starve.”

Beverly chuckles, shaking her head as Richie shoots one last look at Eddie before leaving for the waiting room. She looks over at Bill. “Okay, we need to deal with this before it comes to a head again because we are not doing this ever again. I need them back - for good.” Bill nods in assent. “You got a game plan?”

“Wh-Why do I have to come up with the p-p-plan?” Bill asks warily.

“Because you know them both the best out of any of us,” Beverly answers seriously. Bill nods, looking over at Eddie.

“I hope that’s still true…” he sighs. “I think R-Ri-Richie needs softness and Eddie needs someone to… I dunno, whip him ups-si-side the head and tell him go get his boy.”

“You think that’ll work?” Bill nods again, smiling at Eddie’s sleeping form.

“Pretty sure.”

“Okay. I’ll take Eddie and you take Richie, then,” Beverly says.

“That makes the mo-most sense, yeah.” Bill shakes his head. “I’m still worried about Stanley.”

“I know, buddy,” Beverly frowns, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll figure this all out, okay? That means Stanley, too.”

“Right…” Bill whispers as Eddie begins to stir awake at the noise in the room. “I hope so.”

 

* * *

 

Eddie is worried. He’s not out of his mind worried, but he’s… he’ll say a healthy amount of worried. Concerned, perhaps. Unsettled. Perturbed. Tormented. Fucking _plagued_ by the fact that, ever since the group started hanging out again, Richie refuses to annoy him.

He should be happy. Over the moon! Delighted! Ecstatic, even! But he’s not. It’s _weird_ , okay? It’s strange, the way Richie is treating him. Like he’s wearing kid gloves, tip-toeing around him. After that fateful day in the woods, the next time Eddie saw Richie, a big, bulky cast was on his arm with the word _LOSER_ emblazoned on it. Yeah, not Greta Bowie’s finest hour.

After that trip to the drugstore and painstakingly doodling a _v_ on the word in red sharpie, Richie saw him and looked… guilty? Like he felt pity. And Eddie doesn’t know which would be worse: that Richie feels responsible for Eddie falling into the river, or he pities Eddie for being a loser.

 _We’re all losers,_ Beverly had told him when he came to Stanley’s with the signed cast. _Join the club._

They all proceeded to write nice messages around it to drown out the noise of the cruel label. Stanley had written _strong_. Mike had written _brave_. Beverly had written _hero_. It was all so kind-hearted. Eddie had gotten teary-eyed. And then Richie came up, cap in his teeth, worryingly looking over the kind words written on his cast, and drew a happy face. He drew a _happy face._ Eddie would’ve been happier if Richie himself had written _loser_ over something as informal as a fucking happy face. As if they meant nothing to one another. As if nothing over the last year had happened.

He proposed to Eddie with a gum wrapper ring for fuck’s sake. And, yes, Eddie kept it. In a plastic bag in his sock drawer. He still takes it out every now and then when he needs reminding of what he’s holding on hope for.

That hope is waning with each passing day though, because Richie will barely talk to him. He seems physically uncomfortable around Eddie, like it’s painful to be around him. It hurts. Badly. He doesn’t know what he did besides fall in a fucking river.

They’re at Bassey Park at dusk on a hot day towards the end of June. Everyone else is playing bandaid-and-explosion tag, a game that Richie made up, and Eddie was quarantined to the jungle gym to watch due to his arm, which is when he notices Richie is not playing with the rest of the group. He’s off by himself, swinging on the swings, kicking dirt and looking genuinely so fucking pathetic that Eddie has to laugh at bit. It’s truly comical for a few moments, until he realizes how unlike Richie it is to isolate.

Eddie walks over to him and sits down on the swing next to Richie’s. For a while, they say nothing. And then Eddie sighs loudly. He’s officially done with Richie’s bullshit.

“Richie, I almost died a few weeks ago,” Eddie starts, and Richie looks up sharply, eyes owlish behind his glasses and looking as wide as the moon coming up over the horizon. “And it made me realize that I could die at any time. Any of us could. And I don’t want to die not knowing where we stand. So please, for the love of God, out with it. What did I do?”

Richie blinks. “What did you… do?”

Eddie lets out a sharp, frustrated sigh. “Yes, dummy. Should I say it in a language Yoda can understand? Did I do what?”

“That’s not how Yoda would say it,” Richie smiles. Eddie rolls his eyes, but is so incredibly glad to hear Richie ribbing with him that it barely annoys him. But Richie’s smile fades and he begins stuttering. “I-I, uh, I’m sorry.”

Eddie stares at him. “Sorry for…?”

“For teasing you,” he says quietly, looking down at his dirty Chucks. “I thought you didn’t like it.”

Eddie’s face heats up before he even says what he’s thinking, but he quietly voices it anyway because he knows it’s what Richie needs to hear right now. “I never said I didn’t like it.”

A grin instantly cracks Richie’s face and Eddie feels his heart all but stop. He’s back. “No sweat, Spaghetti.” He puckers up his lips and blows Eddie a kiss. Eddie smiles back and catches it. Richie gasps. “Aw, Eddie baby, you’ve never caught one of my kisses before!”

 _Eddie baby._ Eddie remembers all the pet names Richie had called him in his haze of fear in the forest. He can’t stop remembering. He hopes and hopes and hopes.

Eddie’s grin twists as he looks away. “First time for everything, Trashmouth.”

And both their hearts soar.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, my God, somebody make it _stop_ …” Stanley groans as he drops his head into his hands, and he’s met with a chorus of mutual distaste from his friends as they sit in their usual booth at the diner. It is just past midnight now and Stanley is not the only one amongst the teens who’s ready to strangle Richie with his bare hands if he doesn’t shut up soon.

This is the first time all of them have returned to Sue’s since Valentine’s Day; none of them really felt right about being there without the entire group, so when Bill had suggested it earlier that day, the craving for Sue’s fries and milkshakes had been so strong amongst the group they’d nearly flown there. Richie is easily the most ecstatic - he’s been running on a high from the moment they’d all come together again, and the chance to purify this booth where he feels everything went wrong is simply too much for him to pass up. They’d all looked at it warily at first, but then Bill had smiled at them all, taken his seat, and they all felt a little better, joining him instantly.

Hours later, they are all stuffed and sleepy - that is, everyone except Richie, who is currently running off of three milkshakes, two orders of chili fries, and the most amount of joy he’s felt since their trip to the ice-skating rink back in January. He’s too thrilled even to sit down, and that is precisely what has him receiving these looks from all of his friends. Christ, his heart could fucking stop at just knowing he still has the right to call them all that.

Stanley had thought for sure that Richie would've called it quits after he worked his way through the jukebox’s entire Beatles collection, but when he had found a dusty record featuring Elvis’ greatest hits wedged between a couple Jackson 5 singles, he’d let out a concerning whoop and immediately selected it. Stanley doesn't have a problem with Elvis Presley or his music (that is, when Mr. Presley himself is the one singing it), but Richie sounds tone-deaf at his best, and his best had gotten tired and walked itself out the door somewhere around ten o’clock, leaving Richie to croon along to _Jailhouse Rock_ for the third time, coupled with very boisterous hip thrusts that look to be downright painful.

“You’d think he’d have burnt himself out by now…” Mike mutters almost desperately as Richie brings it home, his arms thrown out as he hits the final note two octaves too high. Beverly winces and rubs at her ears before pressing her forehead into Ben’s shoulder.

“He’s been at it for four hours,” Beverly whines, her voice muffled by Ben’s shirt.

“Maybe he’ll st-stop now,” Bill whispers, looking at Richie from the corner of his eye almost as if direct eye contact would result in the exact opposite of what they all so desperately want.

The track switches over suddenly and the intro to a familiar tune fills the diner, a ghost town save for these seven friends and Sue herself, and Stanley looks up sharply when Ben chuckles, “Hey, Uris, it’s our song…”

Stanley grins meekly, eyes finding Ben’s, and they share a small, sad smile as he starts to croon along softly with the record, _“Well, since my baby left me, I found a new place to dwell…”_ Stanley is not making much of a show about it in the way that Richie would - there’s more of a quiet melancholy feeling to the way those words hang in the air around them. _“Down at the end of lonely street at the Heartbreak Hotel…”_

Ben gets to his feet then, offering his hand to Stanley, and he laughs loudly, taking it and letting Ben pull him to his feet. They sing together as they parade around the diner, cheered on by Mike and Richie who has given up the limelight at last. _“You make me so lonely, baby… well, I’m so lonely… I get so lonely, I could die…”_

Beverly is the only one who seems to be puzzled by this; her brow furrows as the words our song clatter around inside her skull, and she peers at both Ben and Stanley curiously. Our song? What could that possibly mean? Ben is looking only at Stanley, the two of them lost to the King as the latter gets twirled around the diner, making Richie roar with laughter as Stanley is so tall he needs to duck beneath Ben’s arms like they’re playing some sort of bizarre musical limbo. Ben has a smile on his face as he sings along goofily, but he harbours some sadness that even the light in his eyes cannot completely cast a shadow over, and Beverly has never been more confused.

Ben does not look at Beverly once as he dances around the diner with Stanley, crooning about his heartache. He would never make her uncomfortable like that, make her feel like she owes him a thing when that will never be the case, like she owes him her love. Ben knows Beverly loves him like she loves all of the other boys in their group, like best friends, like brothers, and he knows that somebody in her life has made loving any boy hard, so he is trying his damnedest to be grateful, to not be selfish. So he loves Beverly quietly, in secret, pushing his feelings inward so that they don’t ever put pressure on her, because the last thing he wants is to make Beverly not feel safe around him. He knows even this stunt is questionable, but Stanley has still been looking outrageously miserable even after the group has returned to each other, so Ben thought making light of both of their unrequited feelings might cheer the boy up a bit.

And it has - Stanley is laughing. Stanley is actually smiling for the first time in weeks, so why does Bill feel like his insides are ripping themselves apart? He recognizes the feeling in his gut to be guilt, and the longer he watches Stanley sing, the stronger that feeling grows.

 _Although it's always crowded_  
_You still can find some room_  
_For broken-hearted lovers_  
_To cry there in the gloom_

Bill himself could cry watching the scene unfolding before him, watching Stanley sway in Ben’s arms. Stanley has always been thin, but he looks like he’s lost a fair amount of weight in the time they’d all spent apart, and he looks tired, too, like he does after a long game. They both look thin in a way that worries - no, scares Bill. He knows that the separation took a toll on each of them in different ways, but he had worried about Stanley the most as he was trapped in his house for months with his father, back to hiding his true self away as the group was not there for him to be free with. Bill had at least had Georgie, his mother and Beverly to keep him sane. Stanley had no one. Bill remembers the few times he and Beverly had invited Stanley and Ben to spend time with them during the spring in a last ditch attempt to bring the group slowly back together, but there had only been a few small moments together after that catastrophic baseball game before the two boys had wandered off again on their own. _Our song_ beats itself into Bill’s head, and he frowns, looking wistfully at his oldest friend, wishing for all the world that he had a song with Stanley, that he was the one making him laugh right now.

Stanley feels like he’s floating, like gravity no longer exists as he dances with Ben. For the first time in months, he feels at ease. He’d spent so long inside of his house, inside his own head, hearing his father’s staunch tone and angry words spewed over and over in his mind without the help of his friends and their loud love to counteract it inside of him. When they’d all come back together, things started to look up again, but despite his best efforts, it was still hard to be around Bill even after he and Beverly have broken up. He remembers the day Ben had confided in him about his feelings for Beverly as if they were a secret to anyone else but her, and Ben had in turn become the only person to know about Stanley’s feelings for Bill. He remembers Ben calling them The Heartbreak Boys, and it had been like a weird coincidence that Richie should choose to play Elvis of all people, but Stanley is enjoying himself despite the circumstances, despite that tiny ache in his belly that he gets whenever Bill is around. He supposes he’ll get used to it in time, hopes he does just as the song comes to an end and Ben dips him in his arms with a laugh as their friends roar from the booth.

“What a display, fellas!” Richie crows, clapping loudly. Stanley looks towards where Bill is sitting and finds him with a small smile on his face, and Stanley smiles back at him nervously as Richie gets back to his feet, gearing up for another number.

“Oh, Tozier, no - c’mon, we’re all too exhausted now…” Ben pleads, retaking his seat. “Does he ever get tired?” he hisses to Mike.

“Please,” Eddie scoffs before taking a quick sip of the milkshake he's been nursing for the last twenty minutes; he has convinced himself that it isn't technically disobeying his mother’s sugar ban if she will never know about it, but there is still a tiny part of him that feels guilty. He looks at Richie, hair wild from dancing and eyes bright from excitement, and as the pit in his stomach burns with want, he thinks he has a lot to feel guilty about. “We’ll be lucky if he’s even halfway over…” He says this with only mild disdain; he doesn't mind Richie’s singing so much as the others. Or at least, he thought he didn't mind it until the next song began, slower this time and filling the entire diner that was empty save for the seven of them and a single waitress, just like it was last spring. Eddie isn’t sure there’s much different about this situation as Richie begins to sing to him.

 _“Wise men say... only fools rush in…”_ Richie croons along with Elvis, his eyes drooping shut as he begins to sway, and he drops himself down onto the booth beside Eddie then to slide his arm around the other boy’s shoulders, mindful of the brace on his arm, as he sings, _“but I can’t help... falling in love… with… you…”_

Richie is too busy focusing on keeping his voice from shaking to notice how quickly Eddie turns red, how the first thing he does is drop his burning face into his hand. He feels Eddie move as he slumps forward in an attempt to hide from Richie’s gaze, having no clue that the other boy couldn't meet his gaze anyway, terrified that Eddie would be able to see just how serious the look in Richie’s eyes really is, that he could tell just how much he is not joking. Both of them remember what happened here - what had _almost_ happened here - a few months ago, and that memory fizzles like humidity in the late summer air.  
  
_“Take my hand... take my whole… life… too…”_ Richie coos, turning to put his face right up to Eddie’s and resting his chin on his shoulder. _“For I… can’t… help... falling in love… with… you…”_ He hears a muffled groan emanate from somewhere behind Eddie’s fingers and feels his mouth turn up in a small smile as the music slowly fades away, leaving them hanging in a sort of quiet that makes Richie’s skin crawl. He foolishly hadn’t chosen another track after this one, and he has never known how to fall comfortably into silence, so before he can stop himself, a Voice bubbles to his lips, this time a Staten Island wise-guy, and he says, “You alright there, Eds? Sounded like you was dyin’ in there…” He jostles Eddie’s shoulder playfully, and when the boy looks up, it's with a tired sort of look.

“I’m fine, Richie,” Eddie says, but there's something to his tone - disappointment? Richie feels his stomach drop to settle somewhere by his toes, like when gravel slips inside your sneaker to stab at your heel with each agonizing step. Eddie pulls his milkshake closer to him and drains it in one loud slurp, his hands curled around the tall glass so tightly to keep from shaking that his knuckles are white.

“Want some more, Eds?” Richie asks quietly, desperate to keep everyone in high spirits, unwilling to fuck up this tenuous, precarious thing they’re rebuilding, and Eddie leaps two feet off the booth.

“W-What?” he squeaks.

“Another milkshake… I’ll go order you one, if you want?” Richie tries, and Eddie just nods, afraid of what might come tumbling out of his mouth if he were to open it then. Richie drums his hands on the table twice before he gets to his feet and he heads off to the counter where Sue is already standing with her notepad and pen ready.

Beverly watches him walk away, and once he's out of earshot, she turns to Bill, her chin on the heel of her hand, and says, “Bill, can you go order another one for us, too?”

“But I d-don’t want another m-milkshake,” Bill replies, his brow furrowed at her when he sees her jerking her head towards where Richie is standing alone. Beverly jabs him in the ribs with her elbow and he winces. “Ow, Bev!”

“Just go get another one, Bill - please,” she insists, giving him a pointed look, and Bill realizes then what she's trying to tell him.

“Yeah, okay…” he nods. “Anyb-body else want something?” He is met with a series of head shakes, so he leaves the table and goes to the counter with Richie while Stanley, Mike, and Ben disappear off to the pinball machines wedged in the opposite corner, leaving Beverly and Eddie alone.

Beverly nudges Eddie’s foot beneath the table and he looks up from the dregs of his milkshake as he swirls the straw around in it, nothing but a cherry left to float in a layer of flat whipped cream.

“You okay, Eds?” Beverly whispers, tilting her head to the side to watch his reaction. He looks down and shrugs. “It's confusing, I know.”

“That's the thing, Bev - it’s not. Not for him. He knows exactly how he feels,” Eddie breathes, recalling the mixtape he’d left in his locker all those months ago. “It's how I feel that I can't seem to pin down…” Beverly gives him a look. “Okay… Maybe I’m just scared. And it’s not like he makes it any easier for me. I can never fucking tell when he's serious and when he's not, even after all these years. If we’re still just playing the fucking game from the Holiday Party...” Beverly smiles softly when she hears the fondness deep in Eddie’s voice that even his ebbing frustration can't entirely erase. “I wish he'd just get rid of the Voices for once…”

“You know you'd miss them if he ever really did away with them for good,” Beverly accuses with a knowing grin which Eddie returns.

“Of course I would,” Eddie admits. “But there are some times I wish he'd just be straight with me.”

“ _Straight_ , or…”

“Oh, shut up,” Eddie shrieks, pelting her with a straw wrapper, and the two of them erupt into a fit of laughter so loud all of their friends turn to look their way.

“We missin’ something over there?” Mike calls, still hunched over the pinball machine, hands hovering by the nobs. Beverly, her hand pressed to her mouth to stifle her giggles, waves her hand at him as she shakes her head, tears rolling down her face.

Richie is laughing from where he sits at the counter, leaning back against it so that his elbows are propping him up. “You really think Bev needs anymore sugar in her, Billy Boy?” he chuckles. “Girl’s over the clouds already…”

“Sh-She insisted,” Bill responds with a shrug.

“What a dutiful boy toy,” Richie teases, nudging him with the toe of his shoe.

“Sh-Shut up, Tozier - you kn-know we broke up,” he reminds, and Richie actually flushes.

“Sorry, buddy…” he whispers.

“It’s fine. Really. But you can m-m-make it up to me by p-pulling your head out of your ass and asking Eddie out,” Bill pegs and Richie almost falls off of the barstool.

“Why, Billy,” Richie begins in his Southern belle Voice that Bill can read right through, “whatever do you -- ” and he drops it immediately when Bill looks at him, “mean…”

“What I mean is: can you p-pl-please just ask him out already and sp-spare the rest of us? I wouldn't be surprised if Elvis was r-ro-rolling in his grave right now after you've slaughtered nearly his entire discography trying to get Eds to make the first move, which you and I b-both know he won’t…”

Richie gulps and runs a twitching hand through his curls, pushing them out of his eyes before nudging his glasses further up his nose - a nervous tic that any one of the others would recognize, but especially Bill, who’s seen that nervous habit for longer than he can ever remember. “No thanks, Billy Boy. I think that rejection would just about kill me,” he says it lightly, the ghost of a shit-eating grin on his face, but Bill can tell that the boy is gravely serious. Richie did not tell any of them about what went down on Valentine’s Day after they’d left, so Bill does not know that Richie already tried. He tried and Eddie ran. His heart stutters in the chest at just the thought of going through something like that again. “Or did you forget about the party?”

“We’re p-p-past the party now, Richie. We all know Eddie didn't mean that,” Bill insists, frowning when he sees just how much Richie doesn't believe him. He remembers what he told Beverly at the hospital: softness. “You can't tell me you think he d-doesn't want the same thing you do…” Richie scoffs. Running away seems like a good indicator of not being interested, he thinks miserably, but all he does is shake his head.

“You don’t know that,” he says quietly. Bill wants to scream that he _does_ know that, but that’s not his secret to tell. Bill has an iron-grip on any secret the group entrusts in him and he’d never take that for granted, so he responds by changing tactics.

“If you were to tell Eddie the most t-tr-truthful thing you could manage, wh-what would you say?” Richie looks nervous suddenly, wringing his hands, and Bill places one of her steady hands on top of Richie’s shaking ones. “It’s okay, Rich. It’s just m-m-me.”

“Yeah. Just you,” Richie says, shooting him a wry smile. “I think I’d probably tell him that I think he’s perfect, I guess. Like a fuckin’ angel or some shit, I swear to God. I don’t know how I even snagged his friendship, let alone the kisses at the Holiday Party.” Richie gets a faraway look in his eyes as he remembers how Eddie’s lips felt against his, the possibility of that happening again. “Shit…”

“Okay, don’t pop a b-b-boner while you’re s-sitting with me,” Bill grumbles with no heat behind it. Richie grins at him wickedly.

“Could get in a little practice for the main event, Big Bill. You know, like we did before? Just two friends giving each other a _helping hand_ ,” he winks.

“Fuck off. I regret kissing you,” Bill laughs, shoving him a little harder than necessary. He nearly goes tumbling off the stool and makes a dramatic show of catching himself on the counter.

“You coulda killed me! I coulda brained myself on this here linoleum!” Richie accuses.

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Richie sobers quickly, and starts wringing his hands once again. This time, Bill lets him. It’s not even close to the most destructive nervous habit he has.

“Do you think he would understand if I told him that?” Richie asks nervously.

Bill smiles sweetly at him. “I th-think you know Eddie better than a-a-any of us, Rich.”

And he does. Richie would tie himself down on the train tracks going over the Barrens if it meant sparing Eddie an ounce of pain. Bill knows this even more than possibly even Richie does, having witnessed their friendship blossom naturally since childhood. Richie was always Eddie’s protector, and Eddie was always Richie’s. Bill always knew he never needed to worry about either of them needing his armor, sword and shield very much because they were always jumping into battle for each other. It was never one-sided - Bill has watched Richie go up against Sonia Kaspbrak without hesitation and seen Eddie kick Henry Bowers in the shin as hard as he could for breaking Richie’s glasses. It’s in their blood, coded within their very souls to protect one another, to know when one of them needs something that they don’t have within themselves to give. Richie is always picking up the slack of Eddie’s neuroses and Eddie is there when Richie needs him with aloed hands. He thinks Richie never had anything to worry about when it comes to knowing Eddie.

“I just… I know I’m no good for Eddie. We all know it. I don't deserve him -- ”

“D-Don't take this the wrong way, buddy, but nobody deserves Eds. He’s like a fucking angel, as you s-said. And you almost k-killed him back there singing to him, or did you not notice that you c-can do practically anything and get to him? Asking him out is the bare minimum of what you can do to m-make up for that atrocity you call s-s-singing.”

“ _Ouch_ , Denbrough…” Richie hisses, but he's grinning again, a good sign. “Got any ice back there, sweetheart?” he calls to Sue, who rolls her eyes fondly. She has watched these kids grow up from the opposite side of that counter for longer than even they realize, especially Richie due to his mother working there for years. Sue lets Maggie keep her job despite the numerous times she’s come into work drunk because she knows that she’s just trying to make ends meet for her two kids. She missed them terribly over the last few months, wondering where they’d all gone, and she would never tell them this, but she’s over the moon to have them back. They bring life into the peeling walls and yellow-tinged floors.

“Listen to your friend, Richie,” she calls back over her shoulder. “He’s talkin’ a lot of sense.” Richie blushes and turns back around to face Bill, who’s smiling triumphantly.

“Don't look so damn proud, Denbrough. If Eds hands me my ass again, I’m blaming you…”

“Richie,” Bill says sweetly, “he won’t.” Richie opens his mouth to respond, but quickly snaps it shut when Beverly joins them, linking her arm through Bill’s. She has her coat, grateful she’d brought it with her as it’s quite a chilly night for early July.

“I changed my mind, Billy - I’m actually kinda tired now…” she says, laying her head on his shoulder. “Let’s walk the others by the arcade home, okay?”

Richie rolls his eyes. “You can drop the act, Beverly, I know all about yours and Bill’s plan… and you can be proud of him, he’s quite convincing…”

“Good,” Beverly says seriously, quickly straightening up. “But so am I, so listen to me, Tozier, and listen good - if I hear even one thing from Eddie that even remotely suggests you've hurt him, I’ll tear you limb from limb myself.” She says all of this with a smile on her face, and she pats Richie’s arm. “Got it?”

“Crystal clear,” Richie gulps and turns to Bill. “How did you ever date someone so terrifying?”

“It’s p-p-part of her ch-charm,” Bill grins, pulling her closer to his side affectionately.

“Alright, Tozier, let’s see what you’ve got,” Beverly dares, and Richie’s heartbeat upticks. “I expect to hear you’ve romanced him up proper, okay?”

“God, that would be incredible,” Richie breathes, a spacey look in his eyes. “I want to take him to the aquarium in Portland and out to the park for a picnic and -- ”

“Alright, alright!” Beverly chuckles. “I see your intentions are pure.”

Richie’s grin twists. “Not entirely.”

She hits him over the head and he ducks, laughing. “Get out of here, Richie.”

“C’mon, Bev, let’s l-leave these two. I’ll w-w-walk you home… Goodnight, Sue!” he calls to the woman behind the counter, and Sue looks up with a smile.

“Here,” she says, handing Bill his milkshake in a to-go container. “On the house… and tell little Georgie hello for me when you see him.” Beverly thanks her kindly, gives Richie a stern look, and links her fingers with Bill’s before making their way out of the diner, waving the rest of the group over as they go. They all follow and suddenly, the diner is much quieter than it was before. Richie feels his skin crawl uncomfortably in the quiet.

“They were a sweet couple, those two… Shame...” Sue sighs.

“Oh, they're better as friends, trust me,” Richie sighs, and Sue hands him Eddie’s milkshake with her eyebrows raised.

“You alright, kid? Look like you're gonna hurl…”

“I’ll letcha know in about ten minutes, yeah?” he suggests, taking a cautious sip of the milkshake he holds in his shaking hands. “That's about how long it takes me to fuck something up that _isn't_ important - you might be witnessing a new record here tonight, Susan…”

“Well, if something happens and Beverly comes back to kill you, tell her not to make too much of a mess. I’m alone here tonight and cleaning up blood is a real bitch.”

“Oh, har har…” Richie mutters, but he's grateful for this woman and her casual manner, because if he really stopped to think about what he was about to go do, he would probably run for the hills - just take off right out of the diner and not stop running until his lungs give out, just as Eddie did on Valentine’s Day. He thinks he might truly understand how Eddie feels now. Sue disappears into the kitchen then, leaving him to work himself back onto his feet on his own.

Richie sits there at the counter just a moment longer, his mind reeling as he attempts to take hold of something, grappling for the end of just a single thread that can tether him to the ground as he can feel himself already starting to drift away. He shoves the Voices down as far as he can push them, knowing that the last thing he needs is to fuck this moment up with one of his poorly-timed jokes, but he's Richie Tozier and fucking up things that matter seems to be his specialty. He’d practically broken Stanley’s heart on Valentine’s Day with that fucking mixtape, and he still feels shameful about that even though Stanley has since forgiven him. He nearly ruined everything back at his birthday party, and no amount of insistence from anyone else in the group was ever going to fully convince him that Eddie wasn't at least partially serious when he said that he could never be with him. He feels sick remembering that night, the way that they'd shouted at each other, and he feels the lines begin to blur as the diner loses focus through his lenses; he feels his chest grow tight, but it's Eddie’s voice that calls him back, grounding him. The bird sits on a rock on the open sea, the waves crashing against it, and feels at peace.

“Am I going to have to wait for that milkshake to walk itself over to me?” he asks, and his tone is playful, and Richie thinks for a moment that maybe he's being ridiculous, that he can do this. He picks the milkshake up and returns to the booth where Eddie sits alone, squeezing in beside the smaller boy even though the other half of the booth is entirely vacant, and Eddie’s cheeks burn as bright as the neon Open sign hanging in the diner’s window.

“You're cute when you blush, Eds,” Richie says cheekily, passing him the milkshake. Eddie takes it, trying to ignore the spark that flares when their fingers brush together.

Eddie grumbles something, looking down as he takes a generous sip of the milkshake, and before Richie can stop himself, before he can squash Trashmouth as he feels him clawing at the inside of his throat, begging to take over, he opens his mouth and says, “You always this much of a tease, sweetheart?” He could kick himself as soon as the words tumble from his lips because he can see the reaction it has on the other boy.

Eddie frowns, sighing heavily. _Here we go,_  he thinks, _another crack from Trashmouth._ And he has given up trying to act like he isn't upset; that was what had forced all of his pain to bubble up and boil over back in March, and he doesn't want to do that again, he doesn't want to yell at Richie anymore for simply being Richie. And Richie, he realizes very quickly that if he lets this blow over as just another joke, that if he does not make it known now that he's serious, Eddie will never think that he isn't joking.

“Eddie, wait - shit, I’m sorry -- ” he chokes out, feeling the room start to spin again, and Eddie’s head snaps up when he hears how distressed Richie sounds. In all the years that he has known Richie Tozier, he doesn't recall a single instance in which he ever sounded that desperate - that upset - but where he does not register his tone, the look on his face is all too familiar, and it makes something flutter in the pit of Eddie’s stomach. It's the same look that Ben has when Beverly is around, the same look Stanley so desperately tries to conceal from Bill. It’s the same look that Richie always gives him, and Eddie’s heart kickstarts in his chest, pounding so loud he’s sure all of Derry could hear it.

“Eds,” Richie whispers, eyes wide and pleading, but Eddie points at him sternly with a shake of his head.

“No,” he says, voice trembling where his hand is not. “You don't get to do this,” he insists, sounding more like he's trying to talk himself off a ledge than anything. He is blinking away tears, and that makes Richie’s blood run cold. “I swear, if this is another one of your stupid jokes, if this is just a fucking game...” His eyes fall to his lap again as his breathing quickens, terrified to find Richie laughing at him, but the truth is, he couldn't be further from that. Richie scoots a bit closer to him, his hands held up in surrender, staring at Eddie’s wagging finger as if it’s a loaded gun.

“It's not -- ”

“Because I’ll fucking kill you, I swear to God, I will, Richie Tozier -- ”

Richie moves even closer, and they are practically nose-to-nose when he grabs a hold of Eddie’s now shaking fingers with one hand, unbelievably gentle as it is the hand of his injured arm. He is not oblivious to the fact that he all but stopped shaking as soon as Richie takes hold of his fingers. “No stupid games,” he promises in a whisper, and he watches a single tear roll down Eddie’s face before raising his other hand to wipe it away. “No jokes. Okay?” he whispers, brushing his thumb in small strokes across Eddie’s cheek. Both of them are almost motionless, remembering the last time they were in this position, the last time they were in this booth together.

Eddie is fairly certain his heart is going to completely give out once Richie’s hand is twisted around his own, and he realizes in a sudden wave that he never wants him to let go of it again. Sure, Richie has held his hand before - when they were younger, and on occasion, just to mess with him, get him going, but never without his consent, which Richie has always sought - but this time, it feels different. It _is_ different. Eddie can barely breathe, but now, he relishes in that feeling, not wanting to reach for his inhaler as he so often does when he feels like this. For Eddie Kaspbrak, being breathless has always been associated with danger, but for the first time in his life, he feels safe in the feeling, and maybe that's because he can hear Richie struggling to breathe, too. He thinks back to Valentine’s Day, to how dangerously close they’d gotten, how their lips had been merely a breath away from meeting, and Eddie aches.

“Eds, can I - can I kiss you?” Richie asks this so quietly that Eddie isn't entirely convinced that he isn’t making it up; his hand is still pressed to Eddie’s cheek, cradling him in his palm as if he was made of stained glass, like he's afraid he’ll shatter if he is the slightest bit too rough. It doesn't make Eddie feel delicate though, like his mother’s experiment; it makes him feel alive. “Would that be okay?” he whispers, and oh, Richie looks so scared, scared that Eddie might run again, run from him, from what’s lying at their feet between them, just waiting for them to reach down and take it into their hands. Eddie’s cheeks burn beneath his touch when he remembers the way he ran from Richie, the way he’d left him here alone, and he wants to weep. He thinks he might’ve if Richie weren’t looking at him now with wide eyes, still so fucking hopeful. Eddie is absolutely lost to him. He has always been lost to Richie Tozier, it just took him awhile to figure that out, to learn that he doesn’t want to run from Richie, but towards him at full speed.

“If - _yes,”_ Eddie breathes like a midnight prayer, his eyes shining, “I-I mean - if you want to…”

Richie chuckles quietly. _Oh, Eds, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to,_ he hears Trashmouth in his head, but he stifles him, learning his lesson. He touches his forehead to Eddie’s, and for a brief moment, Eddie remembers the Halloween party, almost a year ago by now. _How far we've come._ Their noses brush, Eddie’s breath hitches, and Richie brings his hand up to thumb at his lower lip, brushing it gently, basking in the harmony of their pounding hearts. And then Richie is kissing him, and it’s so much different than the Holiday Party or the ice rink or Valentine’s Day, so much better because they’re entirely, blissfully alone and because Eddie knows now, undeniably, that this is real for Richie, for both of them. Eddie immediately crumbles in the other boy’s arms, falling against his chest as Richie’s other hand comes to rest at the nape of his neck, tilting his head back just a bit to draw him closer. Eddie sighs, and Richie can feel the corners of the boy’s mouth turn up in a soft smile that he suddenly finds himself aching to see, so he pulls back to look at him.

Eddie giggles. Richie’s whole soul soars at the sound. “Your glasses are all fogged up, you doofus,” he says, and it is now Richie’s turn to blush crimson. Eddie slides Richie’s glasses off his face and tucks them into the breast pocket of his shirt. “Better,” he decides, and then his hands are in Richie’s curls and he's pulling him into another sweet kiss.

Richie hums contentedly, happy to just stay there kissing Eddie until the sun comes up. He doesn't know where their friends are, and in that moment, he doesn't really care, because Eddie is there and Eddie is kissing him like he’ll die if they separate and Richie decides in a single instant that he loves him. He already wrote the words I can’t make you love me on a piece of paper three months ago, but now he isn’t so sure those words are true. He loves Eddie Kaspbrak - he is as sure of this as he is sure Freddie Mercury was a God among men and that matching socks are a waste of time. He loves Eddie Kaspbrak - really, truly, properly loves him. He holds this deep inside of himself, knowing that now is not the time for it, knowing that Eddie is not like him, that Eddie doesn't say everything that pops into his head as soon as it arrives there. No, Eddie is more reserved, Eddie is more controlled, and Eddie would most certainly have a panic attack if Richie were to let the words I love you come tumbling from his lips just moments after they’d had their first kiss as -- well, as them. A pair. A team.

Eddie suddenly breaks away, his eyes wide. “You okay?” Richie breathes, and Eddie nods wordlessly, still gazing at him, wide-eyed.

“I’m… not sure what just happened,” Eddie says, sounding dumbfounded.

“I could remind you,” Richie grins playfully, taking Eddie’s face in both his hands and leaning forward to kiss him again, but Eddie squirms carefully out of his grasp while still being sure to keep his hand comfortingly on Richie’s chest. I’m not leaving, he thinks when he sees Richie’s lip shake a bit, and he tightens his grip on Richie’s shirt to prove it.

“Wait…” he gasps gently, and Richie nods, understanding. “Richie, I-I’m — what — we just — oh, my God — ”

“Hey,” Richie shushes him soothingly when he sees him starting to get worked up again. “Eds, it's just me, yeah?” Eddie nods, letting the truth of Richie’s words wash over him. It’s just Richie. He’s thought that so many times when he becomes afraid of the ferocity of his feelings for this boy, and he knows he’s going to have to think it again - especially now. He lets Richie envelope him in his arms, and Eddie takes a deep breath, his eyes drooping as he feels Richie’s hand in his hair, and his shaking ceases almost immediately. God, Richie has always wanted to run his fingers through Eddie’s hair and not have him pull away in mock-disgust, and now he can. He’s allowed to do so much now that he feels like he’s drowning in possibility. Richie looks at the clock hanging over the diner’s door and sees through his blurry vision that it's slowly approaching three in the morning. “Shit,” he chuckles. “Not even our first date and Mrs. K is already gonna have my head on a pike for keeping you out so late.”

“She'd have your head on a pike anyway, and you know it,” Eddie teases sleepily before a yawn overpowers him, and Richie smiles when he sees him start to play with the collar of Richie’s shirt. He catches Eddie’s hand and brings it to his lips so that he can kiss his fingers.

“Eds, you know I’m shit with words,” he says into the space between them and Eddie scoffs, nodding with a loving grin. “But, I… well, I like you.”

“Gee, I couldn't tell,” Eddie teases as he turns his head to kiss the palm of Richie’s hand that’s still running through his hair occasionally, and Richie feels like his heart is ready to burst through his ribcage. “I guess I like you, too,” he grins up at him, still trying to be playful, but the corners of his eyes are crinkling because of how wide he's smiling and Richie is quite sure he could spend the rest of his life looking at that smile.

“What a coincidence.”

  
Richie insists on walking Eddie home, assuring Eddie that there’s wolves out at night and he needs to keep his Eddie Spaghetti protected. Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Well, get on with it, then, I’ve gotta get home and I’m not lugging your tired ass back to your place when you get too sleepy.”

“I’m wide awake, Eds,” Richie promises. “I just kissed my favorite person. I could do cartwheels all down Main and still not be tired by the end of it.”

Eddie smiles bashfully, hiding it in his shoulder, and pulls Richie out of the booth to pay. Richie leaves a generous tip on the table.

“What’s that for?” Eddie asks, pointing to the wad of money.

“Ah, Sue’s a good woman. Very insightful,” he comments vaguely, winking at Sue behind the counter.

“Bye, boys,” she calls, smirking while she waves. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Eddie blushes furiously as Richie pulls him into his side by the waist. “No promises, Miss Sue.”

“Shut the fuck up, Richie!” Eddie hisses, slapping his chest admonishingly with his good hand. Both Sue and Richie laugh as the two boys leave the diner and enter the cool night.

“Mm, nice out,” Richie comments, smiling, hand pulling tighter around Eddie’s waist to bring him closer in case he feels cold as they stroll leisurely home. Eddie hums his agreement. As the silence stretches on, Richie is pleased for once to bask in it, the smile never leaving his face, while Eddie has a minor internal meltdown.

 _What are we gonna tell them?_ he’s thinking over and over again, the loop burning a track in the floors of his brain as it runs around uselessly. _What are we gonna tell them?_ The thing is, Eddie knows logically he should be happy to sit back and revel in these newly revealed feelings, the kiss, the sweetness of Richie’s touch on his hip. But all he can seem to think about is the potential judgement, the fear, the swelling, swimming nervousness that seems to always overtake him, especially when it is least welcome.

He knows rationally that his friends won’t judge them. He knows that rationally. But Eddie Kaspbrak has never been a particularly rational person. He plans for things and makes checklists and to-do lists and shopping lists and lists and lists and lists but never about the right things. His checklists are all filled with things he shouldn’t own but does due to his anxiety, his to-do lists are mazes of fear and over-preparation, and his shopping lists are a eulogies of his self-worth, bending to his mother’s wishes and wills. Eddie Kaspbrak is a lot of things, some perhaps positive, but he has never in his life been rational.

But even with this knowledge, he begins the process of making a list in his head. This time, it’s a pro and cons list, one he knows will be skewed and biased heavily by his anxiety, but one he makes anyway, because that is what Eddie does: he plans. He names the list in his head, Should We Tell Them? and then goes about weighing his options. The most convincing argument to tell them is, of course, they all tell one another everything. These are their best friends. They’re not their parents, creatures of both neglect and overprotection. They’re not Jess Tozier, out for her own gain and no one else’s. They’re not Henry Bowers, using brute force and cruelty to get what he wants. They’re their friends, and Eddie should trust them. He wants to trust them. But Eddie hasn’t trusted someone in a very long time. He isn’t sure that he trusts Richie or even himself, not after the stunts they both pulled at Richie’s birthday party. Kissing is easy. Love for Eddie, for the most part, is easy. He gives his love away for free, even if he’s terrified to say the word itself out loud. But love and trust are two completely different things, and as much as Eddie wishes they weren’t, that’s the truth of the world. You can love someone without trusting them and you can trust someone without loving them. The two are not as synonymous as the romantic comedies Eddie watches in his free time would lead him to believe.

Eddie thinks they need to learn to trust each other before they make whatever has finally blossomed between them known. He doesn’t think that’s very irrational at all.

The hard part, though, will be telling Richie he realizes as Richie kisses his temple tenderly. Eddie chuckles nervously, and Richie stops walking at the sound, pulling Eddie to a stop along with him. Richie steps in front of him and puts his other hand on Eddie’s hip. He looks utterly split wide open - like a door unhinged, a book flipped directly to the climax. Eddie feels like he’s reading ahead when he looks at him.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” Richie asks, the space between his brow creasing a bit when he can see Eddie’s anxiety written plainly all over his face. Eddie cracks a smile at the petname, but it falls almost immediately. “Are you… Do you regret it? Kissing me?” Richie hates himself for how insecure he sounds in that moment. Richie Tozier is not insecure. He is not someone who goes through life wondering instead of acting. But he thinks maybe the wondering is acting in this moment, because he voiced his concerns at all instead of letting them fester inside him and eat at the wound that is still, after all these months, trying to heal, raw and exposed.

“Oh, no, Rich, no. I don’t regret kissing you,” Eddie smiles softly and Richie feels his anxieties melt away. As long as they’re together, they can handle whatever Eddie’s worrying over.

“Then what’s got you all worked up, Eds?” Eddie’s smile twists at the familiar nickname that always felt more like home than his own living room does.

“I don’t think we should tell the others,” Eddie blurts out, all in a rush and a bit tangled together, but Richie is a pro at deciphering Eddie’s anxious syntax. It isn’t the rushed nature of the words that throw Richie for a loop, it’s the words themselves.

“Oh,” Richie blinks. “Okay. Why not?”

“Because! Well, um. Trust! You know?” Eddie says, voice climbing in pitch.

“...No. I don’t.”

“I mean, what, were you planning on blabbing it all over town?” Eddie asks, a bit impatiently. He knows he’s being utterly irrational right now, but that’s who Eddie is, that’s who Richie signed up for.

“I mean, not the town, but basically to anyone who we deem worthy, yeah. I-I’m happy to be with you, Eds. I kinda wanna fuckin’ shout from the rooftops that I snagged you. I didn’t know you felt differently, I’m sorry.” Eddie wilts at the apology, all the fight he has for Richie draining out of him, it being replaced with anger directed at himself.

“No, no, Rich, I -- Augh! I can’t say it right! Fuck me!” Eddie groans, frustrated. Richie holds in a trashmouthed comment about being glad to, knowing it would only add to Eddie’s stress. He learned his lesson earlier in that regard. “Why can’t I get this out?”

“Just say what you’re feeling, darling. I’m here to listen.” That seems to be the wrong thing to say, as Eddie starts shaking his head.

“No, it’s -- it’s that I can’t say it.”

“Why not?” Richie questions, brows quirking in confusion.

“Because I don’t trust you!” Eddie shouts, and Richie immediately takes his hands off Eddie’s hips like he’s been burned.

“Oh,” Richie says, voice hard as iron, tough as steel, stepping back a few steps as if he had been pushed to put some space between them. “I understand.”

“No!” Eddie yells, eyes wide and voice desperate and pitchy. “That’s not really what I meant either! Shit, I keep fucking this up. What I mean is that I don’t trust anyone. I don’t trust myself.” Eddie hangs his head in shame. Richie wants more than anything to puts his arms around Eddie and comfort him. But not if he doesn’t trust him. Has he never trusted him? Has their whole friendship been based around a farce of mutual trust that Richie built up in his head? And what doesn’t Eddie mean by trust? Physical? Emotional? All of it? Richie’s head is spinning.

“You don’t trust our friends?” Richie asks, voice just a whisper in the night, as if Eddie not trusting their group of friends is more heartbreaking to Richie than Eddie simply just not trusting him.

“Richie, I’m fucked up.” Richie shakes his head, trying to protest, but Eddie keeps going. “I am. I don’t -- My mom, she made me believe that the only person in the world I could trust was her and then lied about almost everything my life was based around. It broke my ability to trust anyone, including our friends... including myself. I’m not proud of whatever she broke inside me, but it’s the way I am now.”

Richie stands for a moment and processes this. “Do you think the way you are now will ever change?”

“I don’t know,” Eddie whispers after a long pause. “I want it to.”

“I don’t,” Richie sighs. Eddie looks up at him, eyes wide and reflecting the moon overhead. He looks ethereal to Richie, and that is even more proof of what he feels. “You’re… I’m with you, you know? If this is you, if not trusting anyone is you, then that’s what I want. Even if it hurts.”

“But that’s not fair to you,” Eddie argues. “You deserve someone who doesn’t hurt you.”

“In my personal opinion, the pros far outweigh the cons,” Richie smiles gently. Eddie wishes he would come closer so he could bury himself in Richie’s throat and live there, inside his vocal cords, sighing and singing and screaming and shouting half-truths like he’ll never grow tired of it. Eddie truly hopes he never does.

“I wanna be good to you. If we do this, I wanna be good to you,” Eddie vows.

“Well, let’s hope not too good. You wouldn’t be my Eddie Spaghetti, King of Sass and Ass if you weren’t,” Richie teases.

“Fuck off,” Eddie scoffs.

“That’s my boy!” Richie cheers, laughing. And then something occurs to him. “And I think you trust me more than you know.”

“Oh, I do, huh?” Eddie asks, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.

“Yep. Because you trust me enough to fuck with me. Even after all that time spent apart and everything, you still sass back,” Richie reasons. He smiles broadly and Eddie’s breath gets stuck in his throat. “I think that’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says lightly, marveling at the truth of what Richie said. He _does_ trust him, at least a bit. He trusts Beverly to not spill his secrets. He trusts Bill to protect him. He trusts Mike to be stable for him. He trusts Ben to always help him up if he falls down. He trusts Stanley to always tell him the truth. Perhaps he trusts them all more than he allowed himself to believe. The jury’s still out on whether or not Eddie trusts himself, but he figures learning on the job is the only way to find out. “Yeah. Pretty cool.”

“Now, c’mon,” Richie says, tilting his head down the street and starting to walk off. “We’ve gotta get you home. Mrs. K is going to be wondering where her Eddie Bear ran off to.”

“Ugh,” Eddie groans, falling in step with Richie. “I hate that you found out she calls me that.”

“I don’t!” Richie sings, laughing. Eddie thinks the sound of Richie’s laugh could start and stop wars, could save the world or end it. He wonders how Richie bounces back to his light and breezy self so quickly after being hurt. Perhaps years of practice. Perhaps his masks don’t allow him to do any different.

Richie snakes his arm carefully around Eddie’s waist again and Eddie ducks his head and smiles broadly at the pavement. He tucks himself further into Richie’s side, putting his arm gently around Richie’s waist, and he curls his hand around his hip, interlocking their arms behind their backs. Richie smiles and kisses Eddie’s temple again, but this time it’s less gentle and more smacking. Eddie smiles through his grimace and reaches over to wipe his face off with the sleeve of his sweater. Richie laughs, and it feels more like nothing has changed than Eddie thought it would. It still feels like home.

“Plus,” Eddie adds, smiling a bit, even as Richie’s anxiety spikes without his knowledge, “I kind of wanted to keep it secret because I want something that belongs to me. Something no one can touch. I kind of just want the world to be you and I for a little while.”

Richie smiles down at him and places a kiss in his hair. “Then it is.”

 

* * *

 

Bill, Eddie, and Mike are all in Ben’s treehouse late one rainy afternoon, sprawled out in a sort of mess on the floor as No Doubt’s new album croons from the record player Ben keeps on a nearby shelf. Mike is half-asleep, lost to the sound of the rain hitting the roof and mixing with the sound of the music and with both arms propped behind his head as he smiles up at the ceiling. Bill and Eddie are on either side of him, lying horizontally to his diagonal, and with their heads each resting comfortably on his stomach. Ben is curled up near Mike’s legs, propped against them and tapping the toe of his sneaker in time with the beat happily, an easy smile on his face.

He misses Beverly, Richie, and Stanley, for sure; he always does, but he cannot deny that this is incredibly nice, lying here with these four who can find comfort in just lying around doing nothing in the same way that he can. Richie had to work today, and even if he didn’t, he is incapable of being still for too long, finds it unsettling (“I gotta keep movin’, fellas! Stayin’ still is playin’ dead in my books!” he’ll shout in a cowboy Voice whenever anybody brings that point up to him). Beverly too likes to keep busy, and the others know this is because if she remains stagnant too long, her thoughts tend to catch up with her, and while she’s getting better with fending them off, she doesn’t exactly welcome them. She had made plans with her aunt to go shopping for the day, so she had needed to pass on their plans as well. And Stanley? Stanley had to go to his weekly therapy appointment today, and so he had told the rest of them not to miss him too much and went on his way, climbing unhappily into Donald Uris’s car as Ben, Mike, Bill, and Eddie waved after him, wishing more than anything that they could take their friend far away from his father.

So that is how these four ended up in Ben’s treehouse, lazing around and listening to some music that all of them are sure Richie would’ve pitched an absolute fit over. Eddie can practically hear his snotty remarks about Ben and his boy bands, but he kinda likes it. It’s upbeat and has a catchy tune to it, and when he tells Ben this, he swears the boy’s face is all consumed by a blinding smile as he gazes upside down at him.

“Yeah, I like it, too,” Mike insists after letting out a yawn. “Feels happy.” Bill hums, nodding in agreement, and he cranes his neck to look up at Mike.

“F-Feels like summer,” he adds, and Mike grins back.

“Exactly, Big Bill. Feels like summer…” Bill hums and readjusts his head on Mike’s stomach, accidentally bumping the crown of it against Eddie’s temple, and both boys laugh, each reaching up to massage the places where their skulls collided. Bill laughs a while longer than everyone else, and he wonders if it’s because he’s nervous. He doesn’t know why he’s nervous. Maybe it’s because he’s mustering up the courage to come out to the three out of six friends of his who are straight (jury’s out on Eddie, but he would rather not assume anything on his behalf) instead of the three who are queer in some form or another. Maybe it’s because he’s afraid of the question that plagued him for months: how is it even possible to like both? He isn’t sure of that himself, he just knows that he does. He knows his feelings for Beverly had been real, even if they’ve morphed and changed with time, even if they’re no longer romantic; and he also knows that his feelings for Stanley are real - very, very real, even if he’s only just realized them. Just thinking about the other boy causes his cheeks to flush pink, and he’s grateful none of the others are looking at him at the moment, that they’re too preoccupied with listening to the music.

 _Get on the ball if you love your lover_  
_No gesture too small_  
_Tear down the walls if you love her_  
_Just give it your all_

“Y-You guys?” Bill whispers, and each one of the boys turn towards him mutely, waiting as always for him to speak. None of them ever seem frustrated by the amount of time it sometimes takes their friend to say what he needs to, and for that he is grateful, because he is flying blind here, unsure of exactly what it is he’s trying to get out. “C-Can I t-t-tell you something?”

“Of course you can, Bill,” Eddie promises, looking at him upside down, his long eyelashes batting against his sunburnt cheeks, and Bill can see how many new freckles the other boy has gotten just over the past month. “We’re your friends.” Bill smiles and lets his eyes close as he lets out a shaky sigh, and Ben reaches out to take a hold of Bill’s hand while Mike cards a gentle hand through the boy’s hair. Bill’s lip shakes a bit, touched by his friend’s open hearts and arms, and he suddenly cannot believe he was ever afraid to tell them anything.

“I th-th-think I like b-b-boys and g-girls…” he says softly, and when he opens his eyes, it’s to Ben’s face, an encouraging smile adorning it. “B-Bev says it’s c-c-called bi-bisexual. I don’t know… I just know that’s the f-f-first thing that’s made sense for me… for how I f-f-feel. And I wanted you all to kn-know that b-because you’re my friends and I love you.” Ben surges forward and hugs Bill tightly around his middle and Bill hugs him back as Eddie’s arms find their way around them, too. Mike is the last to envelope them all in his strong embrace, and he kisses the top of Bill’s head firmly.

“We’re even now, fellas,” Mike teases, his laughter rumbling in his chest and shaking the other boys along with him. “That is unless anyone else has somethin’ to share with the group?” Everyone pretends not to notice the little jolt from Eddie and instead settle comfortably back into their original positions on the floor, all of them feeling a little bit lighter. “I love you, too, Big Bill. Thanks for telling me.”

“Yeah,” Ben agrees. “Thank you for trusting us with this. I love you, too, man.”

“I love you, too, Bill,” Eddie promises. “You’re still the best person I’ve ever known.” Ben and Mike nod at that, and Bill could cry. He does. And he feels safe doing that around these people, knowing that none of them view that as a weakness, but as one of the strongest things a person can do. Mike ruffles his hair again and Ben punches his shoulder lightly. “Do the others know?”

“J-Just Beverly,” Bill answers, and they all hum. “I told her a f-few m-months ago. Before…” He does not need to finish that sentence. They all know what he means. Before we were all back together. “Sh-She took is just the s-s-same as all of you…”

“Of course she did,” Eddie shrugs. “She’s Beverly.”

“Yeah,” Bill chuckles, and he wipes at the tears on his face with the back of his hand. “I g-guess we all really l-lucked out in the friend departm-m-ment…” Mike hums in agreement, eyes already closed again.

“That’s for sure,” Ben breathes, smiling around at them all.

“And we all know Richie will take it fine,” Eddie scoffs. “He’ll probably throw you a coming out party…” Bill laughs brightly.

“Y-You’re probably r-r-right, Eds… And then th-there’s just St-Stanley…” None of the boys miss the way Bill’s tone changes when he mentions the other boy, and Mike and Eddie exchange a curious look with one another. Ben, however, can only look back at Bill as he remembers the conversation he had with Stanley back in the spring about unrequited feelings. If the look in Bill’s eyes is any indication, Ben realizes, then he might have gotten the unrequited part very, very wrong.

For Stanley’s sake, Ben hopes he did.

 

* * *

 

They are all crowded into Mike’s attic bedroom and trying their best to keep cool; it is a rare day in the fact that even Stanley has deemed it too humid for baseball, and so the seven of them aren’t doing much more than lying around. Mike is sitting with his back propped against the wall where his bed rests, head thrown back as his eyes lull closed, exhausted from the heat. It might be summer, but all that usually means for Mike is that he has even more responsibility around the farm than usual, and Leroy Hanlon had not spared his grandson of his duties that morning, unbearable July heat or not.

Richie and Eddie are squished onto one of the bean-bags nestled in the corner of the room, bickering lightly. Eddie is complaining about how Richie’s long hair is sticking to his neck because of how humid it is, pawing at him, and yet neither one of them make the move to put any sort distance between themselves. Their friends share a bemused smile, unbeknownst to either of the boys, and it feels so typical of them all that they almost begin to laugh.

Ben is perched on the corner of Mike’s desk, his feet propped on the rung of the stool where Beverly is sitting, hugging her knees to her chest. Bill is sprawled out on the attic floor and fanning himself with one of the baseball catalogues that Stanley had brought along with him. Stanley is lying at the foot of Mike’s bed on his belly and leaning over the edge just overtop of where Bill is. He seems to be attempting to read the back cover, but is failing miserably as Bill isn’t even remotely trying to keep it still.

“Are you trying to make me throw up?” Stanley laughs, catching Bill’s wrist when he has finally had enough, and Bill gives him a nervous, upside down smile from the floor below that makes Stanley almost fall off of Mike’s bed.

“N-N-N-No,” Bill blushes, trying to think about anything that isn’t the feeling of the other boy’s hand curled around his wrist or the way his nose kind of turns up a little or how Stanley’s hazel eyes almost look completely brown in the dim light of the attic. “It’s just h-h-h-h--”

“Hot,” Stanley finishes with a curt nod, and Bill’s blush deepens. “Makes me almost miss being at work in the AC,” he adds, and that makes Bill laugh.

“I th-thought you hated our job, Stanley,” he accuses, eyes narrowing in playful suspicion.

“Um, excuse me,” Richie interrupts, and Stanley’s head snaps up to look at the sweaty boy across the room. “How could anyone hate working at the Aladdin? That’s like a dream come true!”

“Maybe for you, you fucking dweeb,” Stanley shoots back. “Movie theater floors are some of the most disgusting surfaces I’ve ever seen,” he insists, and Eddie nods hurriedly beside Richie.

“I’d take dirty floors over mindlessly stocking shelves for nine hours,” Richie grumbles. He has been working at Freese’s Department store since the spring, and while he’s grateful to Beverly’s aunt for getting him the job, that doesn’t mean he isn’t bored out of his fucking mind every time he’s stuck there all day.

“You get to work with Aunt Shirley!” Stanley shouts. “That’s the real dream! Besides, people are fucking menaces at the Aladdin - they don’t clean up after themselves...”

“Of course they don’t! If they did, you two’d be outta work and livin’ on the streets!” Richie reminds and Bill whips the catalogue in his hands at his best friend, who dodges it expertly which only causes him to lean more into Eddie’s space, and the smaller boy lets out a whine when he feels Richie’s forehead bump against his jaw. “Nice try, Denbrough - guess we know why Bev’s our pitcher, now, huh?”

“Oh, sh-shut it, Trashmouth,” Bill chides, but he’s smiling over at Richie, and Stanley can’t help but marvel at the boy as he sprawls out across Mike’s floor, arms and legs splayed out like he is going to make an angel in the thin layer of dust that seems to cover every last inch of Mike’s house, and Stanley wonders if he’ll ever think anyone else is as beautiful as Bill Denbrough, if maybe he really is an angel himself.

He should have known better than to imagine his feelings for his friend would have diminished on their own, especially without ever openly discussing them with the boy in question; simply willing them to disappear hasn’t seemed to work at all, and now that he and Bill work together at least four nights a week, it’s becoming harder and harder for Stanley to act like he isn’t falling for him. He hopes every day that Bill doesn’t catch the way he looks at him, the way he’s so unabashedly looking at him now, in front of all of their friends as if none of them can see the plain-as-day dopey grin on Stanley’s face as he watches Bill and Richie start to arm-wrestle for the last bag of Pop Rocks. He supposes he’s always looked at Bill like this, like how a moth looks at a flame, consumed with a great yearning, a desire for a warmth it’s never known and still never quite daring enough to reach out and touch it and let himself burn. Sometimes, he wonders about just diving right in, letting the flames wash over him, baptism by fire, but then he feels dread well up inside him like a wave threatening to break.

 _Bill likes girls,_ Stanley chants this every day, remembering how he had done the same to memorize his Torah readings for his Bar Mitzvah, drilling the words into his mind until they were impossible to forget, and he does the same now. _Bill dated Beverly. Bill likes girls._ He supposes this dulls the ache just a bit, this knowledge that Bill is so far out of reach as opposed to just not being interested in Stanley himself; he is sure of it, knows it would hurt much more, be a lot harder to bear if he had to watch Bill be with another boy. Maybe that makes him selfish, making mental checklists of who he can stand to see Bill with, but he’s learned through the years that coping is a different beast for everyone.

Richie Tozier, as usual, does a bang-up job of pulling Stanley out of his own head.

“I think we need a ref over here, Staniel!” he grunts, putting all of his energy into keeping his hand from hitting the floor. Bill might not be as muscular as Mike or have Stanley’s stature or Eddie’s speed, but what he does have is endurance, and he looks as if he’s hardly even breaking a sweat as he bends Richie’s arm like a pool noodle while Beverly stomps her bare, calloused feet madly and the rest of the boys cheer from the half-circle they’ve formed around Bill and Richie. After just a beat of silence, Richie’s elbow wobbles and Bill slams their clasped fists into the floorboards with a victory cry.

“I believe we have a winner,” Stanley declares, reaching for Bill’s hand again and hoisting it high in the air as their friends all whoop and holler their praise. Bill grins at Stanley and squeezes the other boy’s hand quickly, just once, but it’s enough to get Stanley’s insides fluttering as his mind travels to the afternoons they spend at the Aladdin, high up in the balcony seats of the theater on their breaks. More times than not on those occasions, Stanley wonders what might happen if he just reached over and grabbed Bill’s hand in the dark. He’s almost done it a couple times, just to see if Bill would flinch away, but the fear of losing him as a friend altogether stops him cold, but the way Bill is holding his hand now could almost be enough to fool him into thinking he stands a chance. “Step right up and claim your prize, Denbrough,” he smiles, retrieving the final bag of candy from the drugstore bag and holding it out to Bill. They lock eyes for a moment, and for the decidedly not first time that afternoon, Bill wishes that they were alone at the Aladdin like the other boy had joked about earlier.

It is unheard of for Bill Denbrough to want to be at work rather than holed up in a room with his pals, but the Aladdin, for him, has become a sort of sanctuary since he and Stanley had started to work there a few weeks ago, and he would be lying if he tried to deny that this isn’t entirely due to Stanley himself. His friend had come to him at the end of June and asked if he would take up the job with him (“I’d need Saturdays off for Temple, Bill, and I would much rather ask you to cover my shifts than anyone else who might not… understand…” the boy had winced, and with such an incredibly vulnerable look on his face, it had been impossible for the Denbrough boy to tell him no.) And so Bill gave up his Saturdays to scrape chewed gum off the bottoms of movie theater seats for $4.25 an hour, but knowing that Stanley can work a job to earn some pocket change and still fulfill his religious responsibilities is enough to quell any irritation Bill might feel over the work. Plus, it has given him a chance to reconnect with Stanley, the memories of the group’s split in March still weighing on both of their consciences, but none so much as Bill’s.

He has always been the group’s unofficial ringleader, and so he feels almost a personal obligation to get them all back to behaving like the cogs of a well-oiled machine, the guilt in his chest unbearable at times. He feels that guilt the most when he looks at Stanley, knowing how his relationship is with his father, knowing the strain of that relationship and how much Stanley relies on all of them to get him out of his house, out of his head, and so he reflects back on those months they had all spent apart sometime, and Bill shudders to think what that had done to Stanley.

He looks to his friend then, to this boy who walks on water as far as Georgie Denbrough is concerned, and he feels like he shrinks four feet in his presence, like Stanley is something bigger than all of them, something holier, and Bill’s heart aches when he lets go of his hand, fighting the urge to lace their fingers together again and not let go this time.

 _I like you,_ Bill thinks, and he could slap himself for how long it took him to realize that. _Of course I do._ He remembers Secret Santa probably more vividly than any other moment in his life - that was the night Stanley had kissed him, the night his heart had caught fire, and so it should come as no shock to him now that those flames still sit warmly in his chest, spreading throughout the rest of his body now, lighting him up as time passes and he and Stanley grow close again, closer even than before, close enough that Bill is starting to worry if Stanley is growing wise to his feelings.

He worries that Stanley notices just how much worse his stutter gets when he’s around, how nervous he makes him. And it doesn’t help that on the weekdays when they have the same shift, Stanley had the brilliant Richie-Tozier-esque idea of sneaking into the balcony seats on their breaks to watch whatever movie is showing. Bill has quite frequently thought about holding Stanley’s hand in moments like these, but the thought of Stanley laughing at him, of him pushing him away is enough to chase the thought from his mind as quickly as it comes on. So the two just sit in silence instead, the air between where their hands rest on their knees almost palpable and not entirely unlike the distance between where they stand now, still smiling shyly at each other, impervious to the chatter of their friends around them as they move onto the next conversation, but they don’t get very far as there is suddenly a knock at the door.

“Come on in, Gramps!” Mike calls, and Leroy Hanlon pushes the door open, a stern look on his face, and the smile that had been present on his grandson’s face disappears. “Everything okay?”

“Are your chores done, Michael?” the old man asks skeptically, his brow furrowed in a way that lets his grandson’s friends know that Mike definitely did not finish his chores when they’d shown up like he said he had.

“I was -- I was just taking a break, Gramps,” Mike sputters, eyes dropping to the floorboards when he hears his grandfather’s low hum of disapproval. “I’ll go finish ‘em up now,” he promises, scrambling quickly to his feet and wiping a few beads of sweat from his brow. Leroy nods stiffly and then spins on his heel without another word, leaving the children alone.

None of them say anything until the old man’s footsteps trail off the further he gets down the stairs, but once silence falls on them again, Richie, of course, is the first to break it.

“So, what’s on the agenda for today, Mikey Mouse?” the bespectacled boy grins, popping to his feet and dragging Eddie along with him. Mike looks back at his friend, confusion plain on his face.

“Huh?” he asks, and Beverly chuckles from her place on the stool.

“Oh, c’mon, Hanlon - you really think we’d ditch you to do your chores all by yourself?” she accuses, punching his shoulder before reaching to lace up her boots. Mike looks around at each of them, his smile growing as he takes in all of their fond looks, and he is sure, not for the first time, that he has the best friends in the world. “Now, c’mon, delegate us our duties and if we finish in enough time, we can still head over to Sue’s…”

  
“How did I get stuck mucking out the stables?” Richie whines as he tosses another shovel-full into the pile he and Ben have created. Both of them are sweating, and the combination of the sweltering heat and the smell is enough to make their noses wrinkle. Ben stays silent, not necessarily minding the task so much as long as it’s helping Mike; he’d do anything for his friends, even something as unpleasant as this. He looks off towards the garden where Beverly, Bill, and Mike are tending to the weeds, uprooting them and tossing them into a big black garbage bag. Stanley and Eddie are not far from them either, tending to the chickens, and Ben smiles at the two of them, at the fact that their urge to help out a friend is stronger even than their urge to stay clean.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have been crowing Old Mike-donald Had A Farm all the way down the stairs, and Mikey would’ve given you a better job,” Stanley calls back, shrugging as he sprinkles another handful of chicken feed onto the ground. “I mean, you could’ve at least been singing it in the right key…”

“Guess this beats feeding the goats,” Richie decides as he pats one of the horse’s heads, scratching behind its ears.

“You’d rather deal with horses than goats?” Eddie asks, and Richie nods hurriedly.

“They’re beings of grace, Eds!” he insists, and the horse puffs out a breath almost as if to agree with him.

“Sure, till they clobber you to death,” Eddie retorts, and Richie shakes his head, turning back towards the horse.

“You would never do such a thing, right, Marigold?” Richie coos, scratching beneath her chin, and Marigold snorts again, shaking her head so that her ears flop wildly. “Oh, I trust you way more than I trust those demons,” he hisses, pointing towards where two of the Hanlon’s goats stood eating from their trough, and one of them looks up then, directly at Richie. “Look at their eyes!” he shouts. “They’ve seen things… I remember Three Billy Goats Gruff, you bastards! That troll was just hungry and you bamboozled him! Sick!”

Eddie rolls his eyes at his over-dramatic friend before looking down just in time to notice one of the chicks had broken free of its coop. “Oh, no, Stan - catch it before it flies away!” he shouts, and Stanley chuckles fondly at his friend.

“Chickens can only fly for short distances, Eddie,” he explains, but he scoops the little bird into his arms nonetheless, noticing how visibly more relaxed Eddie becomes once he’s sure it’s out of harm’s way. “And plus, this guy’s too little to get anywhere really.” he scratches at the chicken’s head gently with his finger. “He’d have to be fully grown to really make it a decent way, and even then, he wouldn’t have gotten very far…”

“Oh,” Eddie blushes, and he too reaches over to pet the baby chick. “Well, that’s good…”

“Stan-Stan the Birdman,” Richie sings, using the handle of his shovel like a microphone, and Ben makes to trip him with his own shovel, nearly sending the boy toppling over into the mud at their feet. “Cheap shot, Haystack!”

Across the way, Beverly shakes her head at her boys as she hears the ruckus they’re causing over by the stables, too busy being wrist-deep in earth to look up from what she’s doing. She tugs another weed free and tosses it aimlessly behind her before wiping at the tip of her nose where she can feel sweat gathering, sure she’s left behind a smudge of dirt but not caring in the slightest. She’s always loved outside tasks like this - the catharsis of ripping up impurities so that new life can grow unstifled. Being friends with Mike for all these years has given her an even greater appreciation for them, and she’s often found herself coming out to the Hanlon Farm all on her own to help the boy with his daily tasks, knowing how lonely and tiring it can be to do it all on your own. She does look up then, not in the direction of Richie’s singing and Stanley’s groaning, but towards Mike where he’s standing beside Bill, the pair of them working in tandem as they always have, and she smiles wide at the sight before returning to her work.

“So, you still think the Aladdin isn’t a more ideal job than this?” Mike chuckles, and Bill laughs too, a delicate blush coloring his already sunburnt cheeks.

“I g-g-guess it’s not so b-bad,” Bill admits sheepishly, and Mike hums beside him.

“You and Stanley seem to be gettin’ on well, hmm?” he prompts, a cheeky grin on his face, and Bill’s eyes widen. “Oh, c’mon, Denbrough, did you think it wasn’t obvious? You like Stan…” It is not a question, and Bill feels his face grow even hotter underneath his friend’s gaze.

“W-W-W-What?” he stammers, running a shaking hand through his hair and almost slicking it back from the sweat on his forehead. “N-N-No I d-d-d-don’t -- ”

“Bill, please,” Mike interrupts gently, a soft look in his eyes. “I wasn’t born yesterday. You like Stan, and that’s okay, brother. It’s okay…” Bill’s lip is trembling. Despite Mike being the oldest of the group, they have all always looked to Bill as their leader, but now, Bill is grateful to have the older boy tell him that liking Stanley, that liking a boy is okay - that he is okay in the same way Richie had told Stanley nearly a year ago that it’s no big deal, that they would stick together. Bill looks up at Mike with a watery smile, and Mike reaches over to squeeze his shoulder. “Bill, you should tell him.”

“Oh,” Bill gasps, and he shakes his head quickly, remembering everything that’s happened between them: the kisses they’d shared last December, all of that time Bill had spent with Beverly, the time they’d all spent apart from each other. Bill feels nauseous just thinking about it, thinking about how he had been shocked Stanley wanted to even rekindle a friendship with him at all, and how he for sure is not going to put that in jeopardy for his own feelings. Bill Denbrough could never be so selfish. “I c-c-can’t, Mikey… What if he h-hates me?”

“Stanley?” Mike gasps, needing to bite back a laugh as he hugs Bill to his side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, and Bill instantly relaxes at the contact, leaning into his friend’s comforting touch. “Hoo brother, you must really be in the dark if you think Stan hates you... I’d say it's quite the opposite…”

Bill opens his mouth to respond, but before he can get even a word out, Richie’s voice carries over to where the two boys are standing, and Mike and Bill share a pointed look before fixing their gaze on the stables.

“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” Richie shrieks, and Ben snorts loudly when the boy beside him nearly jumps out of his skin as Stanley guides one of the goats towards him. “Mikey, tell Stanley to stop!” he pleads, and Mike shrugs.

“I don’t see a problem here,” he calls back, and Richie looks up, wide-eyed, from where he’s standing on top of an upturned bucket, shooing the goat away from his shoes. Beverly has completely fallen over, clutching her stomach as she howls with laughter, and Eddie has tears in his eyes.

“Mikey, please! I’ll do anything!” Richie begs. “Please, call it off! I can’t deal with these forces of raw, chaotic evil!” Mike and Bill head towards the rest of the group, the latter still trying to will the slight blush from his cheeks as it only grows worse the closer he gets to Stanley. Mike hooks his hand through the collar around the goat’s neck and he pulls her back gently so that Richie can get down. “You’re my savior, Mike…”

“Oh, she just wanted you to feed her, Tozier,” Stanley tuts with a smirk as he takes one of the chicken’s into his arms and plops himself on the ground. Mike smiles down at his friend when he notices how calmly the bird sits with him, how it doesn’t attempt to squirm free, and he thinks that Stanley must have that effect on all living things.

“Well, she can _starve_ ,” Richie growls. “You know who else starved? The troll! That’s on _you!”_ He points in the baby goat’s face, and she bleats loudly, making him jump again.

“Richie, don’t point in Marmalade’s face - she doesn’t like that,” Mike insists, petting her head as Richie kneels down a bit to stare pointedly at the goat.

“Nobody likes you,” he hisses just as Beverly rejoins the group, clearing her throat loudly.

“Excuse you,” she argues. “I, for one, would die for Marmalade, thank you.” She drops to her knees beside the baby goat and holds her hands out to her, smiling when the animal rests her chin in her palms calmly, and Beverly hugs her to her chest, kissing the top of her head.

“You know, goat sacrifices are actually a very beautiful ritual in satanic cultures,” Richie says haughtily, and every one of his friends turns towards him then, dumbfounded.

“How… how could you _possibly_ know that?” Ben sighs, throwing his hands up exasperatedly, and Richie shrugs.

“I went to one meeting. They had pie.”

“Oh, my God,” Stanley gasps. “I love pie. Billy, you have to make another pie soon!”

Mike looks pointedly at Bill, his eyebrow raised, and mouths, Billy? and Bill widens his eyes at him in a desperate, silent plea for him to cut it out that only makes Mike chuckle. Bill looks down at where Stanley is sitting and he almost feels tears well up in his eyes when he sees how serene he looks despite being on the ground. The only other place Bill has ever known Stanley to be so comfortable outside is the sandlot.

“Okay,” he says, and Stanley smiles so wide the corners of his eyes wrinkle. “Wh-Wh-What kind does everyone w-w-w-want?”

“Punkie pie!” Richie shrieks, pumping his fist into the air.

“It’s not Thanksgiving, Richie,” Eddie says, and Ben grimaces.

“God, I can’t believe I’m about to agree with Tozier here,” Ben shudders, “but pumpkin pie is a year-round delicacy, Eddie…” Eddie is shaking his head before Ben has even finished his thought.

“I'm not eating out of season pie. I have standards,” Eddie insists, and Richie scoffs.

“Yeah, okay,” he drawls, and Eddie punches his shoulder before continuing on.

“Also, is no one going to talk about the bombshell that Richie is a motherfucking satanist?"

“Like we didn’t know this?” Stanley deadpans, and the rest of the group nods quietly.

“I didn’t know this!” Eddie shrieks, arms flailing wildly. “What if he's filled with like, I don't know, black magic now?!"

Beverly giggles. “What, like going to one meeting infected him with the forces of evil? More so than he'd already been plagued with? Doubtful."

“Aw, Eddie my love! Don’t worry!” Richie coos, throwing his arms around him and smushing him into a tight hug. “I’ll come back to the light for you, angel! But only for you!”

“Get off, you heathen,” Eddie whines, shoving him away, and Richie pouts. “I can’t have you corrupting me...”

“Too late for that, baby,” Richie mumbles, low enough so only Eddie can hear, and Eddie blushes before shoving him again, the ghost of a smile threatening to give him away.

  
Eddie goes back to Richie’s house after they’re finished at the farm. He says that it’s because his mother refuses to get an air conditioner, claiming that they breed disease, so it’s always abnormally hot in the summertime. And while that’s true, the main reason is that he wants to grill Richie on this fucking satanist shit.

He means to. He really does. But then Richie says he needs to take a shower afterwards to ‘wipe off the stench of Marmalade,’ and Eddie gets distracted looking around Richie’s room. He’s examining all his books, his extensive collection of baseball caps, the posters he’s seen hundreds of times before, when he spots it. Richie has put up a small collection of photographs on the wall right above his small record player. Eddie had been organizing the records strewn beside it by artist after putting on whatever Richie already had in his record player for background music, sighing at the fact that Richie just leaves his records in a free-for-all, when he looks up and spots the little patch of photos. There’s a few that Eddie’s seen many times, having copies of them in his dresser at home from where he’d taken them down from his locker during the spring, but there’s also a couple that Eddie doesn’t recognize.

There’s one from when Richie was very little of him and Jess, from before Eddie knew him. They’re both perched on a ledge in what looks to be a garage. He’s wearing sunglasses and a large leather jacket that must not have belonged to him due to its size, and Jess is sporting a similar look except with her sunglasses perched on top of her head to reveal very dark eye makeup. Both of their hairstyles are done identically, slicked back onto their heads like greasers. Jess has been platinum blonde for so long that he’d forgotten her hair was ever a different color - it’s dark like Richie’s and, despite the fact that he truly dislikes Richie’s sister, it’s a nice photo. He can see why Richie wanted it up.

The one beside it is of Richie, Bill, Stan and himself. They look to be about seven years old. Eddie remembers this photo being taken. It was Halloween and Eddie’s mother had forced him to dress as a pumpkin, saying that his original choice to go as Gomez Addams to Richie’s Morticia was ‘too scary,’ so he had shown up to Bill’s looking spectacularly unhappy and very, very orange. Bill as Wednesday had tried not to laugh, and Stanley was able to hide his snickers in his Cousin Itt wig pulled to cover his face, but Richie did no such thing. He made cracks about it all night and by the time they took the photo, Eddie’s face was beet-red and it was frowning intensely with his arms crossed in front of his chest. Richie had pulled him into his side, trying to look mysterious but laughing too hard to do so, with Bill’s arm wrapped around Eddie’s waist, and Stanley sulking beside him. Stanley is the only one who looks at all in character - Bill’s smile is far too bright to look anything like Wednesday and Richie couldn’t pull off mysterious to save his life. But Eddie still looks back on that night fondly, despite his mother’s interference.

But it’s the other photo that Eddie doesn’t recognize that really catches his eye. It’s of himself, Beverly and Richie from age 13, and they’d all just gotten finished racing down Neibolt Street by the Barrens. Mike must’ve taken it, but Eddie has no recollection of a photo being shot - if he had known at the time, he would’ve certainly looked different. As it is, in the photo, Richie has Eddie around the waist and is twirling him around while Beverly claps gleefully beside them. It must’ve been one of the few times he’d won a race that summer, because he barely remembers ever doing so. Richie and Beverly were both extremely fast, but Eddie always joined in on their races down the long stretch of road that is Neibolt Street because he wanted to try to get better at biking. It had been the year he’d found out about his placebo medications and he’d taken to biking more vigorously after that. They all look so happy in the picture, and it makes Eddie smile to remember that summer. His friends had really been there for him with all the shit with his mother. Beverly had been more withdrawn that year, and that summer specifically - it makes sense, as that had been around the time her father died. But she looks happy in this photo. Maybe she felt the same way Eddie did about the Losers’ Club at that time - a respite from abuse far more sinister lurking at home.

Eddie is so distracted by the photos and the Cat Stevens album playing lowly on the record player in front of him that he doesn’t even notice that Richie has already come in the room. He stands behind Eddie just observing him as he dries out his hair, smiling softly. It’s a bit overwhelming to have Eddie in his space again after so much time spent apart, but the fact that he gets to really be with him now, gets to kiss him and hold him and spend time with him without needing to watch how often he touches Eddie or keep himself in check the way he used to, it sends him over the edge into manic delirium more often than he’d ever admit. He bounces on his toes happily as he pads further into the room, quietly coming up behind Eddie and sitting down behind him. He has the urge to spook him, maybe tickle him or dig his index finger into his side - the kind of teasing that he used to do when he thought that was the only way he’d ever be able to touch Eddie. But with the realization that not only are they alone, but they are alone together, he just wants to hold him in a way that he’s never been able to before. He scoots forward a bit and brackets Eddie’s body with his bent knees, pressing on Eddie’s shoulders and urging him into his space. Where Eddie used to jump at physical contact he wasn’t expecting, even soft touches from someone like Bill, he just eases back into Richie’s chest without fear and sighs softly, still looking at the pictures on the wall.

Richie loves this corner - this is where he keeps all his favorite books and records and comics - but the new addition of the photos really makes it special to him. He found himself oftentimes leaning against his dresser with his guitar and figuring out new songs in this corner of his room often over the spring, trying to get some relief from the building pressure inside of him after being isolated for so long. But now that Eddie’s here in his room, in this corner, he finds it slowly being made new. He leans forward, bowing Eddie’s body in half to reach over and turn on the string of fairy lights haphazardly placed on the floor. When they light up, they cast a soft glow on the shag carpet, the walls, their skin. It’s absolutely lovely, and he has the urge to ruin it by saying something stupid as he leans back on one of his palms, pulling Eddie with him. He resists, however, and just sinks one of his hands into Eddie’s hair, carefully untangling the knots that had manifested after a long day of working. They’re quiet for a long time, the only noises in the room being the low rumble of Cat Stevens through the speakers and Eddie’s quiet hums of approval.

Suddenly, Eddie jolts, and Richie startles, taking his hand out of Eddie’s hair like it’s been burned, like he did something wrong.

“Y’okay, Eds?” he asks, concerned, but then Eddie wheels around to look at him and his eyes are narrowed playfully. Richie lets out an inconspicuous breath of relief and puts his hand on Eddie’s shoulder where it had been hovering above.

“You need to tell me more about this satanist meeting bullshit,” Eddie accuses. “How old were you?”

“Oh, it was only a few months ago,” Richie says easily. Eddie’s eyes bulge out of his head.

“What?!” Eddie whirls around fully and fits his own bent knees behind Richie’s so that they’re facing one another and bracketing each other’s bodies with their legs. Richie shrugs and drapes his arms over Eddie’s shoulders so that his wrists hang loosely behind him.

“S’no big deal.”

“It is _so_ a big deal!” Eddie shrieks. Richie winces at the high-pitched quality of his voice. Eddie frowns. “Sorry,” he says, voice considerably softer.

“S’okay, babe,” he chuckles, reeling Eddie in and laying down, trying to pull Eddie with him. It takes a lot of struggling to get their legs untangled, but eventually they do, and end up with Eddie laying mostly on top of Richie, toying with the tips of his damp curls. Richie is trying to enjoy this moment for what it is - something he never thought he’d have - but Eddie is squirming, and Richie sighs patiently when he looks down to find Eddie frowning where his head is pillowed on his chest.

“You still thinkin’ about — ”

“Yes.” Richie laughs loudly as Eddie continues with an insecure tone. “You really only went as a joke, right, Rich?”

Richie wishes he could say he stopped laughing long enough to answer Eddie, but he’s not a strong man when it comes to resisting enjoyment, and he continues laughing so hard his cheeks start to ache and his stomach cramps up. Eddie is frowning and glaring intensely up at Richie, so breathless, he responds, “Oh, my God. _Yes._ Eddie baby, I swear, I literally only went for the pie.”

“And you didn’t stay the whole time?”

“A’course not.” He figures it’s probably safer to feed Eddie this one little white lie, considering how the crease between his boy’s eyebrows still hasn’t let up. He smooths his thumb over it, and the tension there comes undone in an instant.

“And you’re not lying to me?”

“Oh, my God,” Richie laughs. “You’re such a bully.” He doesn’t want to lie to Eddie any more than he has to considering how much his mother lied to him as a kid, so he thinks this is the safest response. Eddie thinks in silence for a little while after quietly refuting Richie’s statement about him being a bully as Richie’s chuckles die down.

“What did they say?”

“At the meeting? Oddly, similar shit to Catholics. They pull from the same source material, so it makes sense,” Richie shrugs. Eddie gives him a quizzical, disbelieving look.

“Have you ever even read the Bible?”

“I read Revelations, the last chapter, at the meeting and hoo boy! Lemme tell you, Eds, it’s a fuckin’ trip.”

Richie delves into an in-depth explanation of the book of Revelations, and Eddie realizes that Richie has to be lying about at least some part of his story. But he also realizes that he doesn’t much care. He did some confusing things when the group was split up, too, and if the safest of those for Richie was going to a satanic ritual, he is happy to let him have this nugget of secrecy for himself. He never wants what they have to be something where they aren’t allowed room to breathe and be. That’s the kind of love that his mother taught him, the possessive, all-consuming kind of love that scares Eddie to this day. He is constantly fighting like hell to not get jealous when Richie spends time with people outside the Losers’ Club. He’s constantly pushing back against a voice that sounds uncannily like his mother’s, telling him that he needs to keep an eye on Richie, make sure he doesn’t wander away from him. He learns from his mother that the most healthy thing you can do when you love someone is to trust them, so as he lets himself relax into Richie and mould to fit into all the crevices and dips of his body, he lets himself do something he’s never done before: trust someone.

There’s a smile in Richie’s voice when the tension finally leaves Eddie’s body, and his hand sweeps up and down his spine in broad strokes, but he continues talking a mile a minute as he does. Eddie closes his eyes and lets Richie’s voice wash over him. His words aren’t at all clean - they never are with Richie - but Eddie can never seem to feel dirty when Richie’s speaking. He’s spent his whole life fearing the moment he’s currently in - being physically close to another boy. He always thought it would come with a certain sense of dread, as it always did when he imagined it. But Richie has never made Eddie feel dirty or sick or any of the things Eddie’s mother always associated with homosexuality (and somewhat ironically, Richie himself). Richie isn’t clean, but he doesn’t make Eddie dirty, and he thinks that’s the best reason he’s got to trust him.

 

* * *

 

Bill, Ben, Eddie, and Beverly are all sitting outside of the roller-skating rink when they spot Robin Uris’ car pulling up near the curb. Mike and Stanley both hop out, the latter rounding the hood of the car to peck his mother sweetly on the cheek and thank her before she speeds off with a wave and a quick honk of her horn. Bill sits up a little straighter when Stanley drops onto the bench beside him and leans around him to nudge Ben’s shoulder. Mike plops himself directly into Beverly’s lap, who lets out a dramatic oof! but catches him nonetheless, her long freckled arms coiling around his middle as they both laugh.

“Where’s Trashmouth?” Stanley pipes up curiously when he notes the boy’s glaring absence. Nearly all of their gazes flicker to Eddie, and the boy tosses his hands up in the air dramatically.

“Why do you all treat me like I’m his keeper?!” he demands in an octave they’re all fairly certain he hasn’t been able to reach since they were prepubescent.

“Because you are,” Beverly shrugs, rolling her eyes at her friend fondly, and Eddie pouts, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Am not,” he mumbles just as a loud rumbling suddenly falls on their ears, drawing their attention to the parking-lot where a truck could be seen rolling in from the main street. It is obscenely large, red, looks like it’s being held together with a few rolls of duct tape and some glue, and sitting behind the wheel, grinning like an absolute madman, is none other than Richie Tozier himself. As their friend draws nearer to where the rest of them are standing dumbfounded, he fiddles with something they cannot see but what must be the radio because soon they can hear Joan Jett and the Blackheart’s _Cherry Bomb_ blasting from the truck’s speakers.

“Oh. My. God.” Ben mutters, shaking his head as a bemused grin works its way slowly onto his face. “Leave it to Tozier to find the clunkiest hunk of junk to be driving around in…” Richie cuts the engine then and hops out of the truck, tossing his arms out towards it, full-on Vanna White style.

“Isn’t she a beaut!” he cries, grinning from ear to ear.

“Oh, she’s certainly a sight, Rich,” Beverly nods and Richie sticks his tongue out at her.

“Don’t you be jealous, Miss Marsh. Cherry Bomb is --”

“Hold on,” Mike pleads, holding his hand up. “You named it?” Richie lets out a gasp.

“Excuse you, Michael! Cherry Bomb is not an it! How could you be so insensitive?!” he cries as he pets the mirror closest to him, nearly knocking it completely loose as it’s already seemingly hanging by a thread. “Tell her you’re sorry!”

“I absolutely will not,” Mike deadpans, shaking his head.

“Did you b-b-buy that yourself, Rich?” Bill wonders. Richie puffs out his chest proudly, and Bill thinks he looks a lot like Georgie when he comes home with a star on his report card.

“Uh-huh! I saved up from working at Freese’s with Auntie so that I could snag this sweet ride for myself!”

“I think ‘sweet ride’ is a bit generous, Tozier,” Stanley says and Richie flips him off before his eyes land on Eddie.

“Hey, Eds,” Richie grins wily, “is that your inhaler in your pocket or you just happy to see me?” He wiggles his eyebrows at the other boy and Eddie’s face twitches just barely, only enough for Richie to notice, and his smirk stretches.

“Definitely my inhaler,” Eddie deadpans, and Ben lets out a snort. “I’m never happy to see you.” Richie clutches his chest and slumps back against his truck.

“You wound me, Eddie!” he cries dramatically. “At least I know Cherry Bomb will never betray me like this! She’s not as pretty as you, Eds, but I think she’s fine enough… You do think she’s pretty, don’t you, Eddie?” Richie prompts desperately, and Eddie lets out a puff of a breath.

“Sure, Rich, she’s beautiful,” he relents monotonously, rolling his eyes. Richie grin triumphantly and plants a smacking kiss on the truck that makes Eddie grimace. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

“Love is never disgusting, Eds!” Richie decrees as he finally joins the rest of them where they’re crowded around the bench, and he ruffles Eddie’s hair affectionately.

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie whines, swatting his hand away and hoping none of their friends can see the way he’s blushing or the way he involuntarily preens under Richie’s touch. What he doesn’t realize, however, is that the way he responds to Richie is nothing new to the rest of them - this is how he’s always been with Richie.

“You should let me take you for a spin,” Richie insists, nudging Eddie’s sneaker with the toe of his Docs, but Eddie is already shaking his head.

“Absolutely not. That thing looks like a crash waiting to happen, and I can only imagine how the interior looks — ”

“And smells,” Stanley frowns.

“So no thanks.” Eddie finishes with a stern shake of his head. Richie’s eyes narrow playfully.

“Yeah, yeah, you say that now…” Richie says in his mobster Voice. “But we’ll see…”

“Uh, didn’t we come to roller skate?” Ben asks suddenly, and everybody leaps to their feet then, dashing inside to rent skates. Richie hangs back for a second to lock Cherry Bomb up, and Eddie waits with him.

“Hey,” he whispers, and Richie looks up from his keychain with a sweet smile.

“Hi, Eds,” he whispers back, and he bumps his shoulder against Eddie’s gently, brushing his fingers along the back of Eddie’s hand and wishing so desperately that he could just link their fingers together, but whole families are darting past them, heading up and down the sidewalks, and so they stand with an agonizing distance between them. “You really won’t let me drive you around?” Richie wonders, a touch of genuine fear in his voice, and Eddie tilts his head to the side, cooing under his breath.

“I’ll think about it, okay?” Richie beams.

“Yeah, okay…”

“C’mon, Tozier. I’m looking forward to seeing you eat shit in there.” Richie lets out a bellowing laugh, tossing his head back with the force of it.

“I should probably be offended, but you just know me so fucking well, babe,” he whispers as he tosses his arm casually around Eddie’s shoulder, and Eddie hates how quickly his eyes dart around to make sure no one is looking at them funny, that they aren’t getting glares or looks of disgust, but then he supposes they probably just look like a pair of pals. He lets himself relax into Richie’s side a bit, and the effect that has on Richie is astronomical. His already present grin stretches until it nearly consumes his entire face, until he’s nothing but glasses, curls, and a smile. Eddie loves Richie’s smile, and he thinks he’d risk just about anything to be able to see it forever.

“Ah, there you two are!” Beverly sighs as she skates over to them once they’re inside. “What took you so long?”

“I was just giving Eds the grand tour of the backseat,” Richie smirks and Eddie jabs him in the ribs with his elbow, a move Richie knows well and so he’s able to dodge it expertly. Beverly lets out a chuckle and shakes her head at the pair of them before skating off again to join Ben and Mike.

“Beep beep, you fuckin’ Trashmouth,” Eddie snaps, unraveling Richie’s arm from around his shoulders and letting it drop between them. “I thought we agreed on not telling them yet?” Richie’s brow quirks.

“Eds,” he says gently, “you do know that’s nothing I wouldn’t have said in any other instance? Or did you forget the way we’ve always been? I joke, and you get flustered.”

“I do not,” Eddie whines, though the blush on his face isn’t exactly helping him in this dispute. He knows Richie is right, knows that their dynamic has always been Richie making suggestive jokes to get under Eddie’s skin and that none of their friends would have even blinked over what the boy had just said. But Eddie is scared. He isn’t ready for the rest of them to know about him and Richie just yet, and so he’s hyper-sensitive to anything that might make it seem like they’re together. He looks up from his folded arms and he can see the concern in Richie’s eyes as he waits for him to speak.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing that comes to mind for Eddie, has always been the first thing that comes to mind, but he doesn’t stop there, “I know you’re only joking, ‘Chee.” Richie relaxes upon hearing that nickname, one of his favorites. “I’m just… I still don’t know how to tell them yet…”

“That’s okay, Eds,” Richie promises, and he bumps Eddie’s shoulder with his own. “I’ll lighten up on the yucks if that makes you feel better?” Eddie beams.

“Well, only a little. You can’t hold back too much or they’ll start to get concerned… Wonder where that Trashmouth of yours has gone…”

“Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head,” Richie coos, and he wraps his arm around Eddie’s shoulders again as he leads him over to the rental stand to get their skates. “He’s never far from my side and can surface at any moment. You of all people should know that.”

  
Stanley can’t help but recall Bill’s birthday when they’d all went ice skating as he darts around in this wide circle, opting to stay more on the outside so he doesn’t have to worry about slowing down for the little kids near the center, all skating with family members. Stanley’s eyes scan the rink for his own makeshift family, and he spots Beverly chasing after Ben and Mike; she’s gaining on them quite quickly despite both of their best efforts, and he laughs to himself as he watches them, slowing a bit in his own skating. Soon, Bill is beside him, skidding to a halt and reaching out to use Stanley’s shoulder to steady himself a bit, and he smiles shyly up at Stanley as the taller boy feels that very same fluttering in his heart he always gets whenever his best friend is near him.

“H-Hey pal,” Bill says, and they both wordlessly begin to skate again, keeping close to one another as they do. “How are you?”

“Okay,” Stanley shrugs. “I think I was better at ice skating, but this isn’t terrible.”

“N-Not what I m-meant, Stanley,” Bill whispers gently, and Stanley’s head snaps up at his tone, feeling his face flush, and he isn’t sure how he could possibly want to disappear from Bill’s piercing gaze altogether and get completely lost in it at the same time. He knew he would have to talk to Bill eventually about what had happened back in the spring, knew that Bill would not rest until he checked in with every last one of their friends, found out where their heads are at, did all he could to fix and mend as only Bill Denbrough knows how to do. He reaches to bridge the small gap between them and Stanley does not move away, but lets Bill’s fingers curl around his bicep, just over his elbow, and Stanley drags Bill around the rink silently for a bit, trying to collect his thoughts.

Bill is patient as he knows better than anyone how it feels to need a moment to gain the courage to say anything at all, and so he glides alongside his best friend for a few quiet moments before Stanley finally begins to speak.

“I won’t tell you it wasn’t a difficult time for me, because it was,” he admits quietly, and Bill nods. He would never want any of them to lie to him. “It hurt not having you,” there is an almost tangible beat of silence that Bill feels like a weight on his chest, “not having all of you, and only having my father in my head 24/7. It was really hard.”

“I’m s-so-sorry, Stanley,” Bill says, and he squeezes the other boy’s arm, pulling both of them to a sudden stop. “I’m so-sorry you felt like you d-d-didn’t have us… that you d-didn’t have me…” He latches onto Stanley’s other arm as well and stares pointedly into the taller boy’s eyes, his blue eyes filled with a mixture of ferocity and tenderness, the lion and the lamb coexisting inside one boy in a way Stanley has never seen in anyone else before. “Y-You always have me. Okay? I kn-know I sh-should’ve followed after you that d-day at the sandlot — ”

“Bill, no, that was me being dramatic and sensitive — ”

“No,” Bill shakes his head. “No, you were h-hurt and I sh-should have went after you. Th-That’s what friends do. And you’re my best friend.” This is said with such clarity that Stanley’s legs suddenly feel like noodles, and Bill must sense this because his grip on the taller boy’s shoulders tightens to keep him upright. “I ho-hope you can forgive me, Stanley…”

“I already have,” the other boy whispers simply, shrugging his shoulder. “I can’t stay mad at you, Bill. I don’t think I ever could…” Bill gives him a watery grin and tosses his arms quickly around Stanley’s shoulders, sighing deeply once he feels Stanley’s arms coil around his waist, and they stand there like that for a moment, uncaring of the fact that there are most definitely people staring.

They don’t separate until they feel a third pair of arms wrap around them, and Bill lifts his head from Stanley’s shoulder to come face to face with Richie’s toothy grin where he’d perched his chin on Stanley’s curls, squishing them down.

“So why are we hugging?” Richie demands, eyes darting between the two boys. “Did somebody die? Is there to be a wedding? Come, come, what’s the cause of all this emoting?” Stanley rolls his eyes.

“You’re impossible,” he sighs, shoving Richie gently, and the three of them chuckle as Richie tosses one arm around each of them, wedging himself between them.

“I just wanted to know why I wasn’t invited in on all this lovin’, fellas!” he shouts, and Bill looks at the two of them and thinks about how lucky he is. He remembers the moment he met them, how he had stumbled upon their argument on the first day of kindergarten and broken it up (because, yes, even at 5 years old, Richie and Stanley knew how to get into it, even if it was just over the importance of there being a white crayon) and Bill had known then as he knows now that he couldn’t have been luckier to pick these two. Eddie had come along with Richie, a package deal even then, and their group has grown since then, sure, but there’s something about these two, about Stanley and Richie that makes Bill feel safe in a way he doesn’t get from anyone else.

“You guys?” Bill says suddenly, interrupting whatever the pair of them had been prattling on about while he’d slipped into silence. “C-Can I tell you something?”

“Oh, I knew there had to be some juicy secret,” Richie clicks his tongue. “Nobody’s gonna hug Stan Lee like that for no good reason.” Stanley slaps his friend upside the head, nearly knocking his glasses off, and the three of them laugh again. The noise is comfortable, familiar, and Bill chases that feeling like a madman as he works himself up to say what he needs to say.

“I’m - I’m b-b-b-bisexual,” Bill blurts out, and Stanley’s eyes widen.

“Oh… Yeah?” is all he can muster up, and he could kick himself when he sees Bill’s face fall a little bit. He scrambles forward quickly, grabbing Bill’s hand. “Good! I mean — that’s really good, Billy. When — when did you figure that out?”

“N-Not long ago,” Bill says, and he looks down, blushing, and Stanley wishes he was better at this, that he was more like Beverly and knew what the right thing to say was. The truth is, his mind is going absolutely fucking bonkers. Bill is bisexual. Bill likes girls and boys. Stanley feels like he might faint.

“Oh, I think I know what made you realize,” Richie smirks. “I turned you onto boys during our sordid kiss back in the eighth grade, didn’t I, Big Bill?” he teases, poking Bill’s cheek, and the other boy swats his hand away while Stanley chuckles, the sound a little too high-pitched to be casual. “It’s okay, you can tell me. We’re all friends here…”

“In your dr-dreams, Trashmouth,” Bill shoots back with a giggle.

“Oh, every night,” Richie swears, crossing his finger over his heart.

“You’re a menace,” Stanley deadpans, rolling his eyes before turning to face Bill, finally with his thoughts collected. “I’m proud of you.” Bill beams, surging forward to hug him close.

“Thanks, Stan,” he breathes, and Richie wraps his arms around both of them.

“Oh, I love a good gay group hug!” he sighs, loud enough for only the other two boys to hear, and he gives each of them a smacking kiss to their hair before adding, “Alright, my brothers in queer arms, let’s get to skatin’ - I’d rather die than be shown up by all of these straight people. Don’t they know roller derby is for ladies and gays only?!”

“Maybe you should go tell ‘em, Rich…” Stanley insists, nudging Richie back into the circle of skaters.

“I think maybe I will!” the boy shouts, but he has his arms outstretched on either side of him and is moving very slowly, like he’s afraid he might topple over if he goes too quickly.

Bill and Stanley are snickering as he tries to melt in with the rest of the skaters, all of whom are skating backwards now as the announcement over the intercom declaring they’re about to begin the theme skates has just now died down. They watch as Richie makes his way back to the side, where he holds on for dear life until Eddie reaches him and grabs his hand, leading him back out into the mix.

Eddie for all his patience with Richie, is incredibly competitive. Because skating naturally has an element of speed to it, the smaller boy is just itching to take off, and he absolutely would if his boyfriend didn’t have a death grip on his wrist, thwarting his chances.

“Do you think you could go a little faster, Rich?” Eddie prompts gently, trying not to sound desperate, but Richie shakes his head quickly.

“I’m lucky I can go at this speed, Spaghetti Man,” he insists. “Any faster and I’d be on my ass.” Just as he says this, the announcer’s voice comes scratching through the intercom again to announce that it is now time for the Girls Only portion of themed skating.

Beverly barrels past Richie and Eddie, nearly sending the latter flying into the wall they’d been headed towards to rest, and both boys whip around to watch as their friend moves like a bullet through the crowds of skaters, swerving in and out and around them all like they aren’t even there.

“She’s unbelievable,” Eddie sighs, shaking his head fondly as his gaze follows Beverly, watching her spin around and toss her arms up over her head, laughing all the while. She looks completely carefree, and Eddie knows no one deserves to feel that way more than she does.

“Always has been,” Richie says fondly, and Eddie nods in agreement as they both slump against the wall, their shoulders pressed together as close as they can be without drawing unwanted attention.

Beverly makes a few more rounds before screeching to a halt near the snack stand where she can see Mike and Ben waiting on line to buy popcorn. She heads in their direction, calling out to them, and Ben looks up first, waving to her as she draws nearer.

“Havin’ fun out there, Marsh?” Mike wonders once she reaches them and helps herself to a handful of his popcorn, tossing each individual piece high up in the air before catching them all in her grinning mouth. She nods at his words happily.

“The most,” she insists. “This is a lot more fun than I expected…”

“You know it’s like a sport, right? It’s called roller derby, I think. I saw a flier from a team looking for recruits out in the lobby. Maybe you should look into it!” Ben suggests, bumping her shoulder gently, and Beverly blushes, shrugging.

“Ah, maybe… I’ll think about it.” Beverly loves sports, loves playing ball with her boys and heading home with the sort of exhaustion that is welcoming, that is proof of a long, fun day, so there really is no reason she could think of that she wouldn’t enjoy joining a roller derby team. That is, aside from her own issues with trust, and a team needs trust to function or else it falls apart. She isn’t lying, she will think about it, she just has to seriously consider how much she would need to work for it to be a good thing. But then, deep down, she knows all good things, all things worth having and keeping require work.

When Boys Only skating is announced, Beverly practically shoves Mike and Ben out into the rink after relieving them of their snacks, laughing maniacally when they nearly trip and fall over one another in the process. Mike is much better at this than he was at ice skating, something he would definitely attribute to there being no ice involved, but he still struggles, and so he and Ben stay together for the majority of the time, holding onto one another’s shirt sleeves.

“You doin’ alright, Hanscom?” Mike wonders, and Ben nods nervously, eyes trained on his feet as if he could somehow will them not to come out from under him by keeping his gaze on them permanently.

“Doin’ just fine, Mikey - how about you?” Ben asks, and Mike chuckles.

“Cannot complain, brother,” he insists, clapping Ben on the shoulder lightly so that he doesn’t send Ben hurtling forward, and Ben smiles down at his toes just as Stanley and Bill join them on either side, smushing Mike and Ben closer together. Soon, Eddie and Richie are there as well, and they form a sort of horizontal line, each of them linking hands as they skate around the rink. They can hear Beverly cheering from where she’s still near the snack-stand, and they head her way then, all of them shouting for her to join in.

“It’s Boys Only!” she shouts back.

“Oh, _fuck_ gender!” Richie decrees loudly, and he’s met with both a chorus of cheers from his friends and a series of horrified looks from surrounding adults. Beverly tosses her head back with as loud a laugh as any of her friends have ever heard, and she lets Bill take her hand and pull her into the rink with the rest of them, depositing her directly between Ben and Mike at the center of the line where she belongs.

  
The last theme for the night is Couples Skating, and Eddie feels his cheeks get hot when he hears that announced over the intercom. He watches as men and women around him all pair off and his stomach twists thinking how unfair it is that they can just be, that there is no crippling fear keeping them from basking in the light, from putting their relationships on display. Richie looks exhausted from all the skating and adrenaline from the arcade games when he catches his eye. He’s still skating beside Bill, none of the seven of them having yet broken the chain, and Richie smiles at him sweetly.

“Seems we have an odd number, chaps,” he pipes up in his Old Englishman Voice.

“You’re an odd number,” Stanley shoots back and Richie bops him upside the head, careful not to hit the circular piece of cloth pinned to his curls. “We’ll just have to have a group of three, as always…”

“Right here!” Beverly declares, holding up her hands where they’re still wrapped around Ben’s and Mike’s. “C’mon, boys!” she insists, dragging them along, and the three of them break free of the line then, skating ahead and leaving the other four left to sort things out for themselves.

“Spaghetti Man?” Richie offers his hand out to Eddie lavishly, bowing low with shaky knees and dipping his head in such a ridiculous manner than Eddie cannot help but laugh.

“Stand up, you fucking idiot, and let’s go before I change my mind.” Richie straightens up quickly and wraps his fingers around Eddie’s, braiding them together in a way that feels much too intimate for this public of a setting, and Eddie feels butterflies take flight in the pit of his stomach, soaring to every last nerve ending in his body as they skate away from Bill and Stanley, leaving them alone.

“G-Guess that leaves us,” Bill says timidly, holding out his hand, and Stanley smiles at it bashfully, taking it after a moment and trying desperately to ignore the way his heart leaps in his chest every time he touches Bill.

They start to skate a bit faster, and even though Bill is nervous, he feels completely safe letting Stanley guide him around. Stanley has never met a sport he wasn’t good at, this one being no different, and so Bill trusts him in the same way Stanley has always trusted Bill, to not let him fall, to not let any of them fall.

  
Years later, Eddie might have said that the only reason he got into Cherry Bomb after roller skating in the first place was because he was too exhausted to put up much of a fight when Richie started pleading with him to let him drive him home. Part of that is true, sure, because once they all had their fill of roller skating, he and the others were certainly very tired. But if he was to be completely honest, Eddie would have to admit that he agreed to let Richie drive him home because he wanted to spend some more time with him. This, however, did not mean he would go quietly.

“I will only get in that death trap if Beverly does, too!” he declares, folding his arms across his chest and sticking his nose in the air. “Her apartment is on the way to my house anyway…” Richie whirls around to bat his eyes at Beverly, who sighs loudly.

“Oh, fine. I’ll risk certain death for you, Kaspbrak. You’re lucky I love you…” she grumbles as she clambers into the backseat of the truck, settling behind the passenger’s side. Eddie climbs in after her, nose wrinkling from the overwhelming smell of cigarettes wafting from the seats, and Richie whoops gleefully as he hops behind the wheel, waving to the rest of their friends where they are all still crowded around Bill’s car.

“So long, suckers!” Richie cries through the partially cracked window. The crank on the inside is broken and so the window cannot go any further up or down. He blows them each an individual kiss - Bill and Mike both catch theirs, Stanley swats his away, and Ben pretends to watch his crash to the ground at his feet, expression blank. “You’ll miss me when I’m gone, fellas!” Richie insists, and they all laugh, knowing how very right he is as they get into Bill’s Volvo and speed away.

Richie turns to put the key in the ignition and turn it, and when he’s met with a questionable sputtering, his eyes close sadly.

“She’s temperamental,” he explains to the other two in the truck with him. “C’mon, girl,” he begs, patting the wheel affectionately as he turns the key again, and this time, Cherry Bomb roars to life. Richie pumps his fist in the air as Beverly and Eddie both relax again, settling in their seats as Richie begins to drive towards her apartment complex.

It isn’t a far drive, and soon Beverly is hopping out from the back and waving to the two boys as she makes her way to her front door, already removing the chain from around her neck where she always keeps her key so she can let herself inside. Richie idles in the road until he sees the door close behind her, and he nods minutely to himself before taking off down the road again.

“See, I’m not such a bad driver, right, Eds?” he says playfully, puffing his chest out proudly, and Eddie shushes him shrilly, eyes squeezed shut.

“Tired,” is all he grumbles, and Richie looks over at him quickly to see that his head is in fact lolling back on his seat, his chest rising and falling a bit more slowly as he relaxes.

Richie smiles warmly and reverts his gaze to the road, humming quietly until his breath catches in his throat when he feels Eddie reach over and curl his fingers around his wrist where his hand is resting just near the gearshift. He brushes his thumb along the back of Richie’s hand, pushing the leather bracelet that Beverly gifted him their first Christmas as friends tangled there aside before he starts to play with Richie’s fingers, and Richie feels like he’s over the moon, like he could do anything as long as Eddie keeps touching him like this.

“M’proud of you, baby…” Eddie whispers sleepily, and Richie smiles even brighter, feeling the frames of his glasses practically digging into his cheeks.

“Yeah?” Eddie nods slowly, eyes opening for just a moment so he can look over at Richie.

“Yeah. You worked really hard to get this truck. All those times we would all hang out and you couldn’t go because you had to work, that’s paying off now because you can buy things for yourself. I’m really, really proud of you,” Eddie says, and Richie feels like he could cry. He knew that Eddie had acted off-put by the truck in front of their friends because he’s Eddie and he worries, worries that any sort of affection between them will now be perceived as romantic. Richie can tell now that that has been bothering Eddie all day, the fact that he couldn’t be as outwardly proud of Richie as he wants to be. It had twinged a bit then, but hearing Eddie say how proud he is of him for working hard and making his own money, Richie can’t find it in himself to mind so much now. He glances over quickly and finds Eddie’s eyes have fallen shut again, and he lets out a quiet sigh when Richie raises their clasped hands to his lips to kiss Eddie’s knuckles sweetly. “You deserve this, baby. You’ve wanted it for so long…”

And Eddie cannot see Richie then, but he is still looking over at him, so distracted by this beautiful boy, _his_ boy, that he hasn’t even noticed the streetlight has gone green, yellow, and red all over again in the time they’ve sat there idling. They’re the only ones on the road, though, and so Richie cannot bring himself to want to rush home as he whispers, “Yeah, Eds… Yeah, I have.”

 

* * *

 

Beverly isn’t entirely sure why her friends always come to her for advice. Mike is the oldest of the group; Stanley is the most level-headed, the voice of reason, the rationale; Richie can always be counted on for a new perspective; Eddie is easily the most thoughtful; Ben, the most sensitive; and then Bill, their unofficial captain, the brains of nearly every operation, the one who always has all of the answers - that is, until he has a problem of his own.

“Bill, are you actually asking your ex-girlfriend’s advice on how to ask a boy out?” Beverly wonders, brow arched in question as she watches Bill pace the length of her bedroom; there is not a single trace of malice in her voice - in fact, she’s smiling as she takes in the sight of her frazzled and jumpy best friend.

“Okay, first of all, y-y-you know I d-don’t like calling you my ex - you’re my best friend first, Beverly,” he insists, halting in his manic pacing for just a moment to look her directly in the eye in a way that should be intrusive but because he’s Bill Denbrough, it can only read as calming. She smiles back at him. “A-And wh-why shouldn’t I c-come to you?” he asks as he starts up again only to nearly trip over one of her shoes, catching himself at the last second on one of her bedposts.

Beverly chuckles. “Stanley’s really gotten into your head, huh, kid?” Bill slams his forehead against her bedpost three times before she leaps to her feet and puts her hand in his hair so that he can’t move to hit himself again. “You’re not gonna get him to go out with you like that, numbskull. I don’t really wanna explain to your mom why you got a concussion in my bedroom.”

“Jesus, Bev, what do I d-d-do?” Bill groans, throwing himself backwards onto her bed, arms and legs spread out like he was about to make a snow-angel from her sheets.

“The Derry Summer Fair is this Saturday - ask Stan to go with you,” she shrugs simply as she sits down beside him, crossing one of her legs beneath her, but Bill springs upright as if she’d told him Christmas had come early.

“Th-That’s a great idea, Bev!” He throws his arms around her, nearly knocking the wind out of her.

“Yeah,” she chuckles, patting his back affectionately, “and we’ll all be there anyway, so it won’t be so much pressure on you, stud,” she teases, pinching his cheek. “I’m proud of you,” she adds after a beat of silence.

“F-For what?” Bill chuckles, and she bumps his shoulder with her own.

“Everything,” she says simply, beaming up at him. “But mostly for finally growing a pair and asking Stan the Man to be your man,” she puckers her lips and blows a handful of kisses his way, which he bats away with a laugh.

“Sh-Sh-Shut up!” he cries out as a delicate blush covers his cheeks, but he mirrors the grin on her face with one of his own as he shoves her away playfully.

“Go ask Stanley on a date, Denbrough,” she orders, pushing Bill off of her bed, onto his feet, and out her bedroom door. Once he’s in the hallway, she props her shoulder on the threshold of her room and peers up at him through her curls that always fall in her eyes no matter how much she pushes them aside. “And you better sweep that boy off his feet or I will have to have a lot of words with -- ”

“O-Okay, Bevs. I g-g-get it,” Bill insists, and she punches his arm.

“Go get ‘em, tiger.”

  
The next morning, Bill spends the entire bike ride over to the Uris household rehearsing and re-rehearsing in his mind what he is going to say when Stanley is in front of him. He remembers his mother telling him that the more he thinks about what he’s going to say before he says it, the more control he’ll have over his stutter, and as he rolls up to the end of Stanley’s driveway, he says a silent prayer that her advice has some merit to it.

Stanley’s mother is bent over the little garden she’s been nurturing in front of their home - or trying to, at the very least - for as long as Bill can remember. God help her, it’s a marvel how she manages to keep Stanley alive, because every plant she seems to touch just shrivels up overnight. She tuts as she nips at the dead petunias, tossing them into a plastic bag that she has tied to her hip, and when she looks up to see Bill standing there, she smiles at him.

“Hello, William. What brings you here so early?” she asks, and Bill smiles back at her politely.

“I’m s-s-sorry to bother you, Mrs. Uris - is St-Stanley h-h-home?” Bill could kick himself. _Damn this fucking stutter,_ he thinks without a single hiccup. _Why can’t it be that easy out loud?_

“He’s just inside, dear. You can go on in,” Robin Uris says, waving him towards the porch steps. Bill nods his thanks and takes the stairs two at a time before kicking his shoes off at the doormat and letting himself inside, knowing that if he hesitated for even a second, he would turn himself around and go straight back home.

Once he’s inside, he can hear music coming from the kitchen; it’s soft, classical, and Bill recognizes it immediately. He has spent enough nights at the Uris house to know that every day is started with a ballet that, as far as Bill’s concerned, is enough to make any sane person want to go back to sleep. Bill has a decent amount of appreciation for the piano, seeing as there’s one nestled in his own family room and his mother has forced him to take lessons since he was small, but he just could not fathom how anyone could listen to it all the time the way Stanley’s family did.

His nose wrinkles at the thought just as he makes his way around the bend that will bring him into the kitchen, and he finds Stanley alone, mid-yawn, standing at the counter pouring himself a bowl of cereal. His blonde curls are in an absolute state of emergency on top of his head, half of them flattened, probably from sleeping on them. His basketball shorts are rolled at his hip three times (“W-With all the m-m-money in Derry, you think you’d b-buy shorts that f-f-fit you!” “They’re more comfortable like this - sue me.”) and Bill’s breath catches in his throat.

“Is that m-my shirt?” he blurts out, and Stanley nearly drops the entire carton of milk as he whirls around to face him.

“Jesus, Bill! Warn a guy!” he shrieks, a sudden rush of color coming to his cheeks, but Bill hasn’t been able to process anything past the fact that the green flannel Stanley is wearing is absolutely, one hundred percent, beyond a shadow of a doubt his.

“Th-That’s my sh-shirt…” Bill whispers stupidly, unable to stop staring at the sight before him; Stanley isn’t wearing another shirt under the flannel, and it isn’t buttoned because he’s much taller and broader than Bill, which is why it rests a bit too high at his sides and the sleeves only come to just above his wrists.

“You rode Silver all the way over here at 9 A.M. to interrogate me about what I wear to bed?” Stanley teases, a sleepy grin slipping its way onto his face the longer he watches Bill unravel at the seams.

“N-N-No…” Bill sputters, cursing himself again, and he closes his eyes bashfully. “I c-c-came over to ask you a q-q-q-q -- shit… To ask you something… and you d-d-distracted me…”

“If me wearing your shirt is so distracting, I’ll just take it off,” Stanley begins to slide his arms free of the flannel, and Bill’s eyes fly open just before he lets it fall from his shoulders onto the kitchen floor.

“N-No! Don’t d-do that…” he insists, face as red as a tomato at this point, and Stanley flips it back on with a smirk. He walks closer to where Bill is standing, white-knuckling the counter, and Stanley places his bowl of cereal there so he can lean towards him while he eats.

“So, what did you wanna ask me, Billy?” he asks, peering up at him through his lashes, the green flecks in his hazel eyes magnified by the shade of fabric in a way that is downright sinful as far as Bill is concerned.

“W-Well, the D-D-Derry Summer Fair is this S-Saturday,” Bill begins, twisting his hands together while he feels Stanley’s eyes bearing into him.

“I’m aware,” Stanley nods, popping another spoonful of cereal into his mouth leisurely.

“I w-w-w-wanted to…” Bill begins, squeezing his eyes shut tightly in concentration as he fights to get a grip on his speech, but he can feel his hands begin to shake just like his voice, “t-t-to as-ask you if y-you’d like to g-g-go with me.” By the time the words leave his lips, they’re so utterly mangled he has to wonder if the other boy can ever pick out what he said.

Stanley blinks, and for one horrible second, Bill thinks he might have to repeat himself, but then Stanley simply says, “We all made plans to go together, Billy,” and somehow that is worse. Bill shakes his head sharply, feeling his face heat up beneath Stanley’s gaze.

“No -- a-a-a-as a d-d-d -- why are you smiling?” Bill asks suddenly when he notices a grin has crept its way onto Stanley’s face and that his gaze has dropped to the countertop in an attempt to mask it.

“You’re asking me on a date?” Stanley infers, voice barely more than a whisper, and when he looks up at Bill, it’s with soft eyes.

“I was tr-trying to…” Bill whispers back, and his heart thuds wildly in his chest when a hundred-yard smile cracks across Stanley’s face, the apples of his cheeks brightening to a slight rouge.

“Um -- well, yeah... yeah, Billy, I’ll go with you,” Stanley answers after a moment, and Bill feels the muscles in his shoulders relax as he lets out a deep breath, one he wasn’t even aware he was holding.

“O-Okay…” Bill nods.

“Okay,” Stanley repeats, still grinning at him, and Bill wants nothing more than to reach across the counter and brush his wild curls from his eyes. He almost does -- his hand comes off the counter, and Stanley leans toward him almost instinctively, but the sudden slamming of the front door jolts the two of them from their daze and Bill whirls around to face Stanley’s mother as she joins them in the kitchen.

“You’re welcome to stay for breakfast, William,” she insists as she tosses the plastic bag full of decayed petunias into the garbage beneath the sink. She flicks the faucet on with her elbow and lets the warm water clear away what little dirt is on her hands. “Stanley, get your friend a glass of water -- ”

“Oh, n-no thank you, M-Mrs. Uris, I r-r-really can’t st-stay. I pr-promised Georgie I’d t-take him around on my b-bike today…” Bill quickly fibs, and Stanley’s mother nods at him.

“Sweet of you…” she says as she dries her hands. She places one of them on Stanley’s shoulder and whispers, “Make sure there’s a pot of coffee on for your dad when he comes downstairs, Stanley…” Bill does not miss the nervous flicker of her eyes towards the stairs that Bill knew led up to the rabbi’s office.

“Yeah, okay, Mama…” Stanley replies in a small voice, avoiding her gaze, and she squeezes his shoulder once before smiling at Bill and then disappearing into the family room. Bill frowns as he watches Stanley shake his head sharply before rubbing his eyes, and when he looks back up at him, they’re bleary and glistening with unshed tears. “You really takin’ Georgie around today or do you just not wanna play house with my folks?” He says it jokingly, but there’s a sadness in his eyes, and it’s paired with something else, something that looks horribly like shame.

“Y-You can come with us if you want,” Bill whispers, and he takes Stanley’s hand in his. He perks up immediately, smiling at their fingers as Bill threads them together. “I’m s-sure Georgie would l-l-love to see you…”

“I love that kid,” Stanley says and Bill thinks his heart might burst. “I’d love to come with you guys, but I think Mom’s got me helping her around the house today…” He pushes himself away from the counter, still keeping his hand in Bill’s, and they walk back to the front door. “If I finish up with my chores early, though, I’ll come meet you? At the sandlot?”

Bill nods. “Y-Yeah, okay…” Stanley opens the door for him and Bill takes just one step outside before turning back around to face him, finding him leaning against the doorway, still seeming to tower over Bill even without standing upright. “D-Don’t go not sh-sh-showing up, either. G-G-Georgie will be crushed…”

“Just Georgie?” Stanley asks cheekily, and his smirk stretches across his entire face when Bill blushes all the way to the tips of his ears.

“G-Goodbye, Stanley,” Bill says, and Stanley squeezes his hand just once more before letting him grab his sneakers; he doesn’t even bother to tie the laces, just shoves his feet inside them like slippers and hops from the porch to the lawn. He grabs his bike and throws one leg over it just as he hears Stanley call his name from where he is still standing in the doorway. He looks up and nearly topples off his bike.

“Did you want this back?” Stanley asks with a sticky-sweet smile; he’s now shirtless, having shed the flannel while Bill’s attention was elsewhere, and is holding the bundle of fabric out to Bill, who is gaping at him, jaw on the concrete.

“I -- n-no, you -- y-y-you k-keep it…” Bill sputters.

“You’re sure?” Stanley asks, making his way down the porch steps and across the lawn until he’s directly in front of Bill, still holding the flannel out for him to take.

“I’m s-sure…” Bill insists. “It -- I w-w-want you to ha-have it…” Stanley’s entire face lights up.

“Thanks, Billy.” He looks around quickly to make sure his mother hasn’t rejoined them outside and then plants a lightning fast kiss on Bill’s cheek. “Have fun with Georgie.”

Bill brings one of his hands up to touch his cheek where Stanley kissed him as he watches him head back inside with his flannel still balled up in his hand. Stanley turns to wave one last time as he reaches the doorway, and Bill waves back before nudging the kickstand of his bike up and taking off down the street with a cry of, _“HI-YO SILVER, AWAY!_ ” that has Stanley laughing so loud he can still hear him when he comes to the end of the street.

 

* * *

 

Stanley might complain about being stuck in Derry just like every other kid his age, but even he cannot deny that the Derry Summer Fair is one particular highlight of living in the tiny town. The fair is usually held on the final Saturday in July, and this year is no different, so when Stanley descends the steps in his home two at a time on the morning of July 28, 1992, it’s with a spring in his step that could only have been brought on by remembering that he is about to go on a date - his first date. It’s only 8 A.M., and he knows that the fair is not for another couple of hours, but he also knows that if he tries to sit still for even one second, he might just burst.

His mind is reeling. Is he supposed to go to Bill’s house first before heading to the fair? Should he wait for Bill at his house? Every other year, they had all just met up at the fair by the entrance to the kiddie-coasters, but this year is different. He’s going on a _date_ , and for the first time in his life, Stanley Uris is being thrown onto the field of a game he has no idea how to play.

When he bounds into his living room, he is shocked to find his father sitting on the sofa, nose stuck in the morning newspaper. It’s Saturday - his father usually spends Saturdays reading in his study, the day of holy rest, but instead he looks up then to peer at his son over his horn-rimmed reading glasses and he says, “Oh, good, you’re awake. I need your help today, Stanley.”

“Oh, Dad, I actually have plans to…” Stanley trails off immediately when his father sends a piercing look his way, the words shriveling up in his throat not unlike his mother’s petunias.

“You will be helping your father today, Stanley,” he orders in a stern voice, eyes once more perusing the headline, utterly indifferent to the way his son is seemingly shrinking right in front of him, “and then you might have time to go to that silly fair… Lord knows why you’d even want to…” Stanley deflates like a discarded balloon.

“Yes, sir.”

When Donald Uris orders him to tidy up the bathroom, Stanley feels like his skin is crawling. He thinks for just a moment that he might ask to do something else, anything else, any other dismal chore his father could conjure up for him to do than this, but when he notes the no-nonsense look in his father’s eyes, he shuts his mouth and nods dutifully.

He heads into the kitchen to fetch the basket of cleaning supplies his mother keeps under the sink and then makes his way back up the stairs, down the hallway, and into the bathroom. Slamming the door behind him probably won’t do him any favors later, but he does it anyway, wanting desperately to put as much space between himself and his father as possible; walls and a flight of stairs can only do so much. Stanley leans his back against the door, eyes squeezed shut tightly as he breathes slowly through his nose, and his hand shakes so badly he drops the basket, sending the bottles of cleaner flying and rolling about the bathroom floor.

Stanley lets out a sharp, frustrated sigh, adjusts his kippah anxiously, and picks up the bottles, stacking them on the edge of the bathtub. He glances at his watch. **9:30 A.M.** The fair starts in a half hour and Bill will likely be there, waiting for him with Georgie and all their friends. As he begins scrubbing the inside of the tub, he imagines how that scene will play out over and over in his head, variating the ways that Bill’s disappointed face falls when he thinks Stanley isn’t coming, the speech he gives Georgie. Sorry, Georgie, I guess Stan didn’t want to come play with us today. Stanley can’t place where Bill would stutter in his head and that, above all else, is what kills his spirit the most. Or perhaps Bill won’t care at all and will go along with his day at the fair with Georgie and his friends. Maybe he wouldn’t even show up. Stanley honestly doesn’t know.

Maybe he doesn’t really know Bill at all. Maybe none one them know each other. Maybe Eddie and Richie will truly tear the group apart in a catastrophic war with their inability to cool the raging fires they set in each other like they threatened to in March. Maybe he and Bill will slowly drift apart after this. Maybe this will be the final straw for Bill, for all of them, after too much bad blood over the spring. Maybe he’ll see Bill in school and Bill will look down when Stanley passes by. Maybe Beverly will chew him out for hurting her friend. Maybe all of them will; they’re all so protective of each other.

But, he realizes as he finishes putting the cleaner on the porcelain of the bathtub and moves on to the sink, that’s the thing: everyone in the group is protective over all of them. Including Stanley. So, if they find out that Stanley has been rubbing his hands raw due to an asinine and borderline cruel request despite his father knowing full well about Stanley’s Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, maybe they’ll forgive him. Maybe they’ll tell him it’s okay. Maybe they’ll comfort him in the exact way Stanley craves but cannot ask for. The way Bill softly touches his arm but takes it away when Stanley closes his eyes, or how Richie will fix his hair for him if it’s out of place without him knowing it. The gentle, encouraging, supportive smiles Eddie gives when they see a boy and a girl kissing in the hallway at school. The talks he and Mike have had down by the quarry, staring into the water from the cliff above, knowing they don’t need to take the plunge to still be brave. Or sweet, kind Ben, who always points out birds to Stanley that he hasn’t noticed when they walk around town, who gave him a new pair of binoculars just two weeks ago for his birthday because Richie had broken the ones he’d given him last winter by accident. And Georgie. Georgie calms Stanley down the same way Bill calms him down; a simple hug from Georgie feels like it cures everything that ails him, can solve even the things that feel and seem absolutely impossible. He never feels that impulse to count or clean when he has that little boy in his arms. The Denbrough boys have magic in their touch, he thinks.

They all love him. They all want him to be happy. Stanley tries to believe in that love and their desire for him, tries to want it for himself as he wrings out his hands, attempting to stretch them. They ache with a pulse from how long and hard he’s been working. He looks down at his watch. **10:48 A.M.** He’s 48 minutes late, and he’s barely started.

He wishes there were anyone he could call, but everyone is already at the fair. He called the Tozier house right before he started working, hoping Richie would be running late, but his mother picked up and told him that Richie had already gone to the fair. _We’re all turning him into a man of his word,_ he thought at the time, and then: _Dammit._

As Stanley begins scrubbing the floor of the bathroom, he thinks about what they’d be doing if he were at the fair. Maybe they’d start out on the children’s rides with Georgie, all of them, goofing off and joking around while mostly only children were there. Then, as the day went on, they would eat lunch, Stanley steering clear of anything that wasn’t kosher. Maybe they’d ride the ferris wheel, just him and Bill, as the sun went down. It’d be perfect. The perfect day.

It was supposed to be perfect. He looks down at his watch for the 18th time since he started cleaning. **12:06 P.M.** Fuck.

As he begins scrubbing again, there’s a knock on the door. He lets out a silent sigh at the fact that his father insisted on checking up on him, as if sending him into this room and taking away the thing he’d been looking forward to for days wasn’t bad enough.

“Come in,” Stanley calls out, and looks up to find his mother. “Oh. Hi, Mama.”

“Hi, Stanley. I was wondering if you could use some help,” she offers and Stanley’s eyebrows shoot up briefly before he schools his expression into disaffected neutrality.

“Well, uh, yeah. That would be great, Ma. Are you sure?” he asks hesitantly. She nods once.

“Yes, Stanley, I’m sure. Thank you for asking. I see the cleaner is in the bathtub; how long has it been in there? Do you need me to rinse it out?” Stanley nods, a bit dumbfounded.

“Uh, y-yeah,” he stammers. “I was going to work on the toilet next, but the floor is taking… longer than I expected.” He says this vaguely, knowing how much his father dislikes it when he speaks candidly about his illness and how it affects him. He always says _some things should be kept between you and your therapist. It’s why we pay her._ He assumes his mother feels the same because she hasn’t said explicitly that she doesn’t. She nods.

“Saving the best for last, I see,” she jokes, deadpan, but a small smile creeps out after a moment, and they both laugh.

“Something like that,” he responds. When she turns to rinse the tub and the walls of the shower, he goes back to scrubbing. The smile on his face doesn’t disappear.

It only takes another 35 minutes for them to complete the bathroom together, and Stanley knows it would’ve taken more than double the time without her help. As they finish, Stanley prepares for a speech of some kind from her, something to negate the kindness he received. He’s not used to getting acts of mercy in this house.

Stanley wipes his hands on the towel his mother brought in with her, fresh from the laundry. He counts the amount of swipes the towel takes across his tired skin. _One, two, three, four --_

“Stanley. You know…” _Five, six, seven, eight…_ “I’m sorry you didn’t get to go to the fair like you wanted to today.” Stanley wishes he could look up, could have this conversation, but he’s already started counting, and he would have a panic attack if he stopped halfway through. _Nine, ten…_ “You know your father is a hard worker. I think he just wants the world to work as hard as he does.” Stanley lets out a humorless chuckle as he continues the wiping of his hands. _Eleven, twelve, thirteen…_ “But I think you work very hard, Stanley.” _Fourteen, fifteen._ He puts the towel back down the the rack, straightens it, and looks up at her.

“You do?” He doesn’t want to sound meek and frightened of this situation, a real conversation with one of her parents, so he chooses instead to sound entirely disaffected.

“I do,” Robin responds, and the surety she says it with and the fire in her eyes sparks something inside him he didn’t know even had the ability to catch flame anymore. “Now, go change and go to the fair. I don’t want you to have to be any later than you already are.”

She gives him a kind smile. He responds with one of his own and then bolts out of the room.

  
It’s been hours. That’s what Bill tells Richie. It’s been _hours_ , okay? Maybe Stanley forgot. Maybe he got scared. Maybe he never wanted to come in the first place. Richie is out for blood, but Bill just puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes his head sadly, telling him it’s okay, it’s not necessary. He’s heartbroken, of course, but didn’t expect this to go well, anyway.

However, the rest of the group is furious. Most of them are seething whenever they see the slump of Bill’s shoulders when he passes by with Georgie. And Georgie, of course, has noticed as well. He continuously asks Bill if he’s alright, if he wants a cotton candy, if he wants to go on the carousel again, didn’t you like it when we went on, Billy? And when Bill just shrugs, says you pick, Georgie pulls on Bill’s hand he’s holding so he looks down.

“C’mon, Billy, you can’t be sad at the fair!” Georgie cries, and Bill lets out a sigh.

“N-Not now, G-G-Georgie,” he says quietly. He hears Georgie gasp a bit and looks down at him to see Georgie looking stricken.

“Billy, you never stutter when it’s just us. Did I hurt your feelings?” Bill shakes his head immediately and crouches down to balance on his toes so that Georgie’s just a bit taller than him.

“No, buddy. I’m just sad Stan didn’t sh-sh-show up,” he says, figuring the boy will appreciate honesty. Georgie’s face clears at the admission and he bounces a bit.

“Oh! Why didn’t you say so? Stanny will come, I know he will. He told you he would and he’s your friend, so he won’t lie to you. That’s what you told me, right? People shouldn’t lie?” Georgie questions with a tilt of his head. Bill nods.

“Right, buddy,” he responds kindly. Georgie pulls on his sleeve.

“Now, c’mon, I wanna get cheesy fries!” Bill smiles and follows him.

Richie has been trying to distract himself from his anger by winning Eddie a stuffed animal, but it’s proving much harder than he originally thought it would be. Beverly is not helping the situation, being good at nearly every game they play, and Richie is, frankly, finished with her shenanigans.

“Beverly, Beverly,” Richie drawls, walking up behind her while she’s doing the ring toss.

“Don’t salt my game, Tozier,” she warns, and Richie scoffs, hands in the air.

“You’re salting mine! All I want is to win Eddie a stupid bear and I can’t win any of these completely _rigged_ ,” he says, pointedly looking at the man running the booth, who looks utterly blitzed and doesn’t care what Richie’s yelling about whatsoever, “games. And yet here you are -- ”

“And my army.” Beverly gestures to the small crowd she’s amassed of stuffed toys from games she’s won over the course of the day.

“ -- utterly _ruining_ my chances of getting in good with Eddie!” She snorts.

“Oh, please. You’ve gotten in good with him, Richie. He’s fucking gone for you,” she says without looking at him, tossing a ring, as if the words she’s saying are not utterly euthanizing Richie. “It’s a little disgusting, if you ask any of us. We’re supportive. But disgusted.”

Richie puffs out his chest, ready to throw himself down on the tracks and defend Eddie’s honor even though he’s off getting cotton candy. “Well, frankly, you guys can fuck off because if Eddie is happy, then -- ”

“Oh, my God, Drama Queen Tozier, take it down a notch, buddy, I’m just fuckin’ with ya,” she drawls, rolling her eyes. “You know I’d kill for Eddie Kaspbrak.”

“Me, too,” he responds, and the words are simple, but they’re said with more feeling and seriousness than Beverly has heard from him in a long while. _Stanley’s absence must really be getting to him,_ she thinks. “Hey, I have an idea! Why don’t I take one of your stuffed -- ”

“No.”

“But, what if -- !”

“No. I won them. Go away, you’re going to infect me with your disease of Bad-At-Games-Itis,” she teases, and he shushes her, looking around quickly.

“Don’t, Bee!” Richie cries quietly. “Eddie might hear you, don’t joke about me having a disease; I woke up this morning with a patch of acne on my back and he thought it was a fucking open sore.”

“I don’t want to know about why he could see your back,” she grimaces, turning back to the game. Richie smirks.

“I mean, maybe it was because last night, I was on my back -- ”

“Hey, guys! I’ve been looking for you!” Eddie calls out, and Beverly lets out a sigh of relief.

“Thank God. Get your boyfriend away from me, Eds, he’s torturing me with his incessant chatter.” Richie lets out a wounded noise and then takes an inaudible breath at the word choice. _Boyfriend. Is that what he is? My boyfriend?_ Richie shakes away his thoughts. Eddie realizes that Beverly must have figured out that he and Richie are dating on her own and he feels his hands start to shake before flexing them out and breathing in and out very slowly. He turns to Richie and bumps him with his cast.

“What are you torturing Beverly about now?”

Richie shakes his head, sighing dramatically, putting on some sort of southern Voice that neither of them can identify. “I am not torturing her, I would do nothing of the sort! I can’t believe you would assume I would upset Miss Marsh, my dear Eddie.”

They both roll their eyes, and Eddie offers him a bite of cotton candy wordlessly which he takes, grinning. “You’re easy to please,” Eddie says.

“You’re an idiot, feeding me sugar, sugar,” Richie responds. “Come on, we gotta go stretch your wrist out, let’s do your daily exercises. We’re gonna be at the picnic table over there, Bevs, alright?”

“Great excuse for not playing anymore games, Rich!” she calls out from over her shoulder and Richie flips her off even though she can’t see him. “Hey! I won! Another bear to add to the army, please.”

Richie grumbles unintelligibly, sitting down at the table. Eddie offers him his arm and he takes off the flexi-cast, looking around briefly to see if anyone is watching them, and then kissing the inside of his wrist delicately once it’s exposed. They both flush a light shade of pink, but continue on with the exercises in strengthening Eddie’s wrist.

Ben is off getting Mike an ice cream who is waiting by the carousel for him, right by the entrance to the games and rides, when he sees Stanley running through the streets like a madman.

 _“Stanley!_ ” Mike calls out and he tries not to let it come out as a roar. Stanley spots him almost immediately when he hears his voice, running over to him while holding his kippah flat on his head so it doesn’t fly off, even though it’s fastened into his hair. Mike whistles long and low when he comes close enough. “If you didn’t want to go with Bill, you could’ve just said no.”

“I didn’t -- my dad -- I couldn’t -- ” He’s so out of breath, he can’t even form a complete sentence, gasping in between the breaks in his words, and Mike slaps him on the back not unkindly, seeing the struggle Stanley took to get here.

“Billy!” they hear Georgie squeal from the opposite sidewalk, and they both turn to look. “Stanny’s here! See? I told you he’d come! I told you!”

Bill looks around wildly, but doesn’t spot Stanley through the crowd, and Stanley jogs his way over to the two of them with a smile on his face. He stops in front of Georgie and Bill and his lower half is immediately wrapped in a bear hug from Georgie.

“Hi, Stanny!” Georgie greets, eyes closed in joy. Stanley kneels down and swaddles him in a proper hug.

“Hi, Georgie,” he says, and he smiles as well, completely content, though he’s still giving big, heaving breaths. For Stanley, wrapped in this hug, everything’s okay for a moment.

“Billy has been upset all day because he thought you weren’t coming, but I told him you would because you said you were gonna and people shouldn’t lie. That’s what Billy told me and he’s always right.” Stanley looks up at Bill from where he’s still kneeling and feels his chest tighten when he sees the forced smile on his face.

“Yes, little man - people shouldn’t lie,” Stanley repeats the little boy’s words like a mantra, though his gaze is still fixed on Bill, his eyes pleading, and he feels his heart all but shatter in his chest when he sees Bill look away. He hates me, Stanley thinks, and that does it. His hands begin to shake where they’re resting on Georgie’s back, and the little boy can feel it. He lifts his head off Stanley’s shoulder, a look of concern on his small face.

“Stanny, why are you shaking? Are you cold?” Georgie asks innocently. Bill’s head snaps around at his words and his stomach drops when he sees Stanley unraveling before his eyes; he does his best to hold himself in one piece for Georgie’s sake, but Bill recognizes the look on his face immediately.

“Georgie, back up a second, okay? Let him up,” Bill says gently, taking Georgie’s arms and unhooking them from Stanley’s waist so that the other boy can stand, but when he does, his knees wobble and it’s lucky Bill and Mike are close enough to catch him, each of them hooking an arm through Stanley’s, and they walk him over to the nearest bench, setting him down carefully. Bill kneels in front of him and takes his trembling hands in his, noticing for the first time that the skin of Stanley’s hands is rubbed raw only when the boy winces at his touch, sucking in a sharp breath from the sudden pressure.

“W-What happened, Stan?” Bill asks quietly as Mike runs to fetch an ice-pack, but Stanley can only shake his head sharply from side to side, his eyes squeezed shut tightly as he fights the tears he can feel building up behind his eyelids.

“I’m sorry,” he cries, losing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whimpers. “You hate me.”

“N-No, I don’t -- ” Bill says as Mike returns, tossing the ice-pack to him. He catches it and lays it gently on Stanley’s hands. The boy yelps, the sensation uncomfortable at first.

“I was late for our date and I couldn’t find a way to tell you I was going to be late and now you hate me -- ”

“Stanley, I don’t hate you -- ”

“You hate me. You hate me. You hate me,” Stanley cries, and he’s hyperventilating now, his breathing coming in quick gasps. Bill tightens his grip on the boy’s wrists, being sure to avoid the more tender parts of his skin.

“Sweetheart, look at me. I don’t hate you,” Bill promises in a voice that is soft but sure and Stanley drops his head into his hands then, trembling fingers tugging at his curls rhythmically and every so often brushing over his yarmulke, the soft fabric between his fingers a welcome, comforting feeling. Bill rubs his back gently, laying his other hand over where Stanley’s is splayed in his own hair, and he whispers, “I don’t hate you. I pr-promise. I don’t h-hate you…” He kisses his head softly and he feels a tremor roll down Stanley’s spine. “D-Do you want to t-tell me wh-what happened? You d-don’t have to… It d-doesn’t change the f-f-fact that I’m not mad at y-you…”

“My dad made me clean the bathroom,” Stanley chokes out, and he could have stopped right there, for Bill knew what such a task would do to the other boy -- the evidence is right in front of him in the boy’s red hands, skin burning from his incessant scrubbing, but Stanley goes on, “and I-I tried to get it done fast, Billy, so I could come be with you and Georgie and everyone else but it was so messy it just seemed like every time I thought I was done, it got dirty all over again and I couldn’t stop cleaning, I couldn’t stop, Bill, I couldn’t stop -- ”

“Okay,” Bill whispers, shushing him when he sees him starting to get worked up again, and he rubs his back slowly. “I-I-It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Stanley argues, shaking his head as Bill curls his hands around the other boy’s again, keeping them wrapped around the ice-pack. “I ruined our date.”

“Ruined?” Bill asks quickly, and when Stanley looks up at him bashfully, it’s to find a sweet smile on his face. “S-Says who?”

“This isn’t exactly romantic…” Stanley mutters.

“I-I’ll admit, when I th-th-thought about holding your hand, this isn’t exactly what I h-had in mind…” Bill teases, gesturing to their clasped hands, and Stanley can’t help but laugh as a delicate blush rushes to his cheeks.

“You… thought about holding my hand?” he asks, and it’s Bill’s turn to blush.

“M-Maybe. Shut up,” he squeaks when Stanley gives him a knowing look, but he can’t help a grin from stretching across his face as he watches Stanley begin to relax again, and for the first time since his arrival, Bill notices what he’s wearing. “Oh, you really are tr-trying to kill me…” Bill sighs when he takes in the plain white t-shirt and cut-off jean shorts he’s wearing along with a green flannel tied around his waist that looks especially familiar.

“You said I could keep it, didn’t you?” Stanley asks, actually having the audacity to look shy and timid. Bill could die.

“Y-Yeah, hon. I said you could k-k-keep it.”

  
Any anger the rest of the group was harboring towards their friend utterly evaporates once they learn the reason for his absence, and quite frankly, once they see how happy Bill is that the other boy has finally arrived, none of them are about to chew Stanley out for being late even if it had been his fault. Mike and Beverly have taken Georgie to ride the merry-go-round as a favor to Bill so that he and Stanley could have a moment alone, but just as they get that moment, Richie rolls up on where they are still sitting on the bench, Bill kneeling in front of Stanley and holding his hands, ice-pack dripping as it has thawed out completely by now. Eddie and Ben are on either side of Richie, the latter towing upwards of twenty stuffed animals in a plastic bag, all of them Beverly’s - she’d asked him to carry them for her while she is busy with Georgie and he was more than happy to help.

“Shit, what happened to you?” Richie asks bluntly when he gets close enough to Stanley to see his hands. Eddie bops Richie’s side with his good arm, giving him a pointed look, but Stanley just laughs.

“My dad happened,” he says, and Richie nods solemnly in understanding.

“Well, at least you’re here now, buddy,” Eddie insists, patting Stanley on the back, and the other boy smiles up at his friend gratefully.

“Yeah,” Richie agrees, slinging his arm around Eddie’s shoulders to draw him closer to his side. “Billy Boy was gettin’ antsy without you, Stan. I was startin’ to get worried…” Bill rolls his eyes in an attempt to mask his embarrassment.

“S-Says the guy who c-c-can’t be more than a f-f-foot from Eddie at a-all times…” Bill pipes up, gesturing to his pair of friends, and Ben snorts.

“Denbrough’s got you there, Trashmouth…”

“Would you want to be more than a foot from this handsome devil?” Richie challenges. “‘Cause I wouldn’t! Look at him!” he shouts, pinching Eddie’s cheek as he squeals, _“Cute, cute, cute!”_ Eddie tries to squirm out of Richie’s grasp, but his attempt is half-hearted as he giggles, turning closer instead to Richie and letting him brush his lips over his temple, unseen to the rest of the world but not by their three friends standing before them. Ben rolls his eyes lovingly before turning to Bill and Stanley.

“Promise me you two aren’t gonna be as sickening as Abbott and Costello over here,” he pleads. “I can hardly take much more of this.”

“That’s not nice, Benjamin!” Richie scolds, his suburban socialite Voice coloring his tone. “Eds and I have the right to be as sickening as we like in public! It’s the 90’s, baby - gay is here to stay!” Eddie shushes him quickly with a nervous laugh, clamping his hand over his boyfriend’s mouth, and Richie says, his voice muffled, “While this is very hot, Eds, I’d have to say this really is pushing the envelope for P.D.A…”

“Shh! Richie! We’re not…” Eddie trails off, looking pleadingly between Bill and Stanley, begging them to take his denial as law.

“Yeah, buddy, we know,” Bill assures kindly with a smile to Richie whose eyes are suddenly heartbreakingly sad behind his glasses. He shakes the feeling away as quickly as it came though, and puts on a grin instead. He’s glad to be with Eddie at all, even if he can’t say so out loud.

“God, guys…” Stanley laughs, shaking his head at them, a fond smile on his face. All it took was ten minutes with his losers and Stanley Uris is up and moving, back to his regular self, his horrible morning forgotten for the moment as he peers around at these very loud, very silly people who love him. “While I’d love to sit around all day and watch Richie and Eddie fondle each other -- ”

“Sounds good to me!” Richie cries.

“ -- I actually want to enjoy what I can of the fair,” Stanley finishes, turning to find that Bill had gotten to his feet as well and is standing beside him, a soft smile on his face. He bumps Stanley’s shoulder affectionately with his own and Stanley looks down at his toes, blushing all the way up his neck.

“Aww,” Ben coos before turning to hook one arm through Richie’s and the other through Eddie’s, wedging himself between the couple, earning a protesting huff from Richie. “Come on, you two - let’s leave Bill and Stan alone.” Richie’s shouts can be heard the entire time as Ben drags the two of them off in the direction of the rides, and Stanley laughs again.

“He’s insane…”

“O-Of course he is - he’s R-R-Richie,” Bill replies with a smile, watching their friends as they disappear into the crowd of people all bustling through the streets of Derry.

The entire town is in attendance, as usual; children can be seen running on and off of rides while their parents stand watching, nursing lemonades and slushies from one of the hundreds of food-stands dotting the sidewalks that afternoon. The sounds of carnival games fill the air - the chiming of rung bells and the popping of balloons as little ones shoot water at a target to win a prize, workers with auctioneer voices that Richie Tozier would salivate over can be heard from miles away, calling at passersby on the street, trying to reel them in to play their games.

Bill and Stanley walk the streets leisurely, standing close enough to one another that with every few steps they take, their hands brush together for half of a moment, never long enough to draw unwanted eyes, but every time it happens, Bill feels his feet lift higher off the ground. Soon, he thinks, he’ll be over the moon. They pass by the miniature petting zoo when they take a left down a side-street and find Mike with Georgie on his shoulders, the little boy’s entire upper-body leaning towards a llama, his arms reaching for it as he squeals, overcome with giggles as the animal bobs its head against his hand.

“He likes me, Mikey!” Georgie chimes, petting the llama gently, and Mike cranes his neck to smile up at the boy.

“Well, now, who wouldn’t?” Mike asks just as he spots Bill and Stanley coming their way. “Hey, little man - look who it is…” He points his finger towards the pair of them and Georgie follows it, his whole face lighting up when he spies his big brother walking towards him, Stanley at his side.

“Billy!” he shouts, waving his hand over his head, and Bill waves back, smiling. “Billy, Mikey let me on his shoulders so I could see the llama better and Beverly says she’s gonna buy me ice cream!” The little boy spouts joyfully.

“Whoa, ice cream?” Bill asks, a touch of mock jealousy in his voice. He takes Georgie into his arms when the boy reaches for him. “Are you gonna share with your big brother?”

“Nope,” Georgie sings, shaking his head, and Stanley and Mike snicker. “Get - your - own - Billy!”

“Get my own?!” Bill shrieks.

“Uh-huh!” Georgie nods just as Beverly returns with a chocolate ice cream cone in hand, topped with sprinkles and hot fudge. “Oooh, gimme gimme gimme!” the little boy squeals, grabbing for the ice cream and nearly squirming out of Bill’s arms.

“Uh, what do you say, Georgie?” Bill stresses, brow raised.

“Please?” Georgie asks, smiling sweetly at Beverly, who is utterly helpless. She kisses his head and hands him his ice cream, which he gratefully accepts, digging into it so ferociously that when he looks up to chime, “Thank you, Beverly!” he has hot fudge all over the tip of his nose, and that makes the rest of them laugh so hard tears spring to their eyes, each of them so overcome with love for the little boy that they don’t even know how to handle it.

“You’re welcome, sweet boy,” Beverly coos, ruffling Georgie’s hair, and Stanley taps the younger Denbrough boy on the shoulder.

“Say, Georgie, that looks awfully good - could I try some please?” Georgie nods, offering the ice cream cone to Stanley, and Bill’s mouth falls open.

“What!” Bill gasps. “Georgie, how come you won’t share with me but you’ll sh-sh-share with Stan?”

“Because, Billy, Stanny said please.” Mike and Beverly nearly collapse as they explode with laughter, and even Stanley can’t help but chuckle as he takes a small taste of the ice cream cone.

“Thanks, buddy,” Stanley says, patting Georgie on the back as Bill is still looking back and forth between the two of them, dumbfounded.

“I f-f-feel betrayed!” he cries. “My own b-brother!”

“All you had to do was say please, Billy…” Georgie insists with a shrug, and Beverly is in hysterics, actual tears rolling down her face as she lets her head fall onto Mike’s shoulder, who is shaking with his own laughter.

“Bill, why don’t you bring this kid everywhere with us? He could teach Richie a thing or two about comedy…” Mike barks in between his chuckling.

“I’d l-l-like Georgie to keep some of his innocence in tact. T-Too much time with R-Richie would certainly do away with m-m-most of it.”

“I love Richie!” the little boy cries, his chocolate grin spread wide across his face. “He’s funny!”

“Oh, don’t let Richie hear that,” Beverly says gravely. “That’s the last thing he needs is more encouragement…”

“What are we not letting Richie hear?” Richie himself inquires as he seems to appear out of thin air beside Stanley. Eddie and Ben arrive just a moment later, the latter handing Beverly her bag of prizes with a huff.

“Those things are heavy, Bev,” Ben gasps, nearly doubled over.

“Oh, well, that’s why I asked you to carry them for me, hotshot. Big, strong track star and all…” Beverly insists with a wink. And Ben thought he couldn’t breathe _before_.

“Excuse me, we interrupt this round of flirting to bring you back to the original question,” Richie butts in, adopting his game-show host Voice, “what are we not letting Richie hear?”

“That there’s ice cream - you don’t need any more sugar in you, Tozier,” Stanley says quickly, and Richie looks positively affronted.

“You were trying to deny me delicious dairy confections, Stanley? How dare you!” Richie shouts, pointing madly at his friend, his eyes wild, and Georgie giggles, which only fuels Richie’s fire. “I could’ve died! Do you want your friend’s blood on your hands, Stanley? Do you?!”

“You can have some of mine, Richie!” Georgie says, holding his ice cream cone out to him.

 _“What?!”_ Bill shouts, but Richie waves the offer aside.

“That’s okay, little man,” Richie insists. “Eddie will buy me some.”

“Eddie will what?” Richie whirls around to smile innocently at him, finding him with a questioning look on his face.

“Buy me ice cream? Please, angel sweetie pie honey bunch? Please, please, please?” Richie begs, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a child. Eddie rolls his eyes so hard they might just as well tumble out of their sockets and down the street, but he is digging in his pocket for loose change as he grumbles, shaking his head at Richie. “Ugh, you spoil me,” Richie sighs dreamily, hooking his arm through Eddie’s and pecking him on the cheek. Eddie blushes scarlet and only wipes his cheek off to keep up appearances. “Anyone else want something?”

“I’m not Rockefeller!” Eddie reminds and Richie clicks his tongue.

“I know that - you’re just my sugar daddy...” Richie teases, and the reaction that pulls from the group is unbelievable.

Ben, who was still doubled over, just falls to the ground, exhausted in every sense of the word and in no way capable of remaining on his feet after hearing that. Meanwhile, Beverly has her fist pressed to her mouth in a last-ditch attempt to keep from shrieking. Bill’s eyes simply close and he lets out a disappointed sigh as Stanley clamps his hands over Georgie’s ears, and Mike is shaking his head, the bridge of his nose pinched between two of his fingers.

What is undecidedly the most remarkable reaction though is Eddie’s. Richie watches as the smaller boy’s eyes widen nearly to the size of teacup saucers, his cheeks flaring up, and Eddie wonders for one brief moment if his face hasn’t actually caught fire. He says nothing, and Richie begins to worry, mouth opening to backtrack, but Eddie is already walking towards the ice cream stand when he passes behind Richie and says in a voice so low none of the others could possibly hear, “Damn right, I am.”

Richie nearly chokes, whirling around, but when he turns, Eddie is gone, already in line for ice cream and acting as if he hadn’t just tried to murder Richie where he stood. Richie, however, does not see Eddie steel himself to be able to say it and then have a total crisis once he does. _Was it too far?_ Damn right, I am, _how cheesy. He probably thinks I’m crazy. Crazier than he already does._

He tries to shake off his self-deprecating thoughts as he wordlessly hands Richie back his ice cream, trying to tune in to what the rest of the group is saying, but is hyper-aware of Richie staring at him. Eddie eventually gives in and looks over at him to find him smiling warmly, ice cream dribbling down his hand.

“You remembered my favorite kind,” Richie remarks with a grin that could outshine the sun. Eddie feels lightheaded. “Chocolate with a raspberry shell.”

“Yeah, I did,” Eddie says, trying to hold back his own matching grin, but his eyes are just as sunny as Richie’s. The sun tries to burn them all high in the sky, but it cannot touch them. They are invincible today. Today, they cannot be stopped. As Richie leans over and takes a lick of Eddie’s cone and Eddie starts whining that he can’t hit him with the cast on his arm so he better cool it, they all get a feeling of rightness. This is where they were all meant to be. Everything has been leading up to this family. Georgie and Bill make eye contact and smile.

 _Yeah,_ Bill thinks. _This feels right._ He looks over and sees Stanley lost to his laughter, slumped against Mike’s shoulder, the two of them howling over Ben’s story of how Richie had tried to win Eddie a stuffed giraffe from one of the carnival games where you have to toss a basketball through a hoop, and Bill snickers at the image, knowing Richie’s basketball skills are more worse than his baseball skills, so it must have been a sight to see.

“So, the ball hits the rim of the hoop, right? Bounces off the rim and flies back and just nails him right between the eyes!” Ben finishes boisterously, slapping himself on the forehead, and Mike and Stanley are losing their minds, just having an absolute fit while Richie shouts wildly, protesting every other word out of Ben’s mouth.

“I meant to do that, Haystack - you just don’t understand my methods!” Richie declares, and Eddie rolls his eyes fondly.

“You’re all madness, no method, Trashmouth,” Ben shoots back, hooking his arm around Richie’s shoulders and pinning him to his side so that he can tousle his hair fondly. “You might wanna start carryin’ around a roll of tape if you’re gonna keep breaking your glasses…”

“Don’t need to, Eddie already carries some around for me in his cute little fanny pack! And don’t be jealous that I can pull off nerd chic and you can’t, Benjamin,” Richie tuts, blowing Ben a kiss after he releases him from his chokehold. “Everybody knows you’ve been jealous of my good looks since 1991…”

“Alright, alright, break it up, boys,” Beverly finally butts in, placing a hand on the two boys’ shoulders. “I thought we were here to ride some rides and eat greasy food till we puke? What’re we doin’ standin’ around? Last one to the Tilt-A-Whirl foots the bill at Sue’s tonight!”

  
By the time the sun begins to creep its way closer and closer to the horizon, Stanley is wondering if it’s even possible for the day to get any better at all, the episode with his father earlier that morning already a distant memory after spending the last few hours with his friends. He is walking the streets still, now with Georgie propped on his shoulders. The boy is carrying a bear that is more than double his size, the stuffed animal slung over his back with its long arms tied around his neck like an ascot. Bill is beside him, strolling along quietly and looking around as the crowds slowly begin to die down; it’s really just older teens and adults left meandering the fair now as parents have begun to shuttle the little ones back home and into bed. Stanley is surprised Bill hasn’t mentioned bringing Georgie home yet, but he isn’t complaining; the last thing Stanley wants is for this night to end. He catches Bill’s eye, they both smile shyly, and Stanley feels a horrible ache in his stomach, an incredible urge to reach over and take Bill’s hand in his. His eyes scan the crowd around them, knowing before he looks up that there are too many people around for them to safely hold hands, and suddenly he feels cold. Bill nudges his shoulder with his own and Stanley looks to him sharply, finding his eyes and exactly what he needs in them.

“Stanny, do you like Billy?” Georgie suddenly pipes up. “Billy likes you a lot. He told me so!” Bill nearly trips over his own feet.

 _“Georgie!”_ he hisses, mortified, his cheeks and ears pink.

“What? You did!” Georgie defends himself, and Stanley cranes his head to peer up at the little boy on his shoulders as he tugs affectionately at Stanley’s curls.

“I like Billy very much, Georgie,” Stanley insists, and he watches as Georgie’s face brightens, a smile that could rival the setting sun stretching across his face.

“See, Billy!” the little boy says as he uses Stanley’s head as his own personal bongo. “You can hold hands now!” Stanley could cry, and when he meets Bill’s gaze, he sees the same sentiment in his eyes - if only everyone around them was like the kid they both love.

Bill spots Beverly as the three of them round the corner that brings them to the heart of the fair; she is leaning against one of the food stands, eating french fries from a popcorn bucket while her bag of stuffed animals sits at her feet. She waves to them when she sees them, and she watches Bill turn to tell Stanley something before running over to join her.

“What can I do ya for, Billy Boy?” she asks in an uncanny impression of Richie Tozier, wiggling her eyebrows and even pushing a pair of imaginary glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“W-Would you mind taking G-G-Georgie on a couple rides or something so St-Stan and I could be alone?” Bill asks nervously, running his hand over the back of his neck. Beverly’s eyes brighten.

“Alone, you say?” she says, her voice full of mirth, and she reaches out to tickle him.

“Beverly, c’mon…” he pleads, chuckling still as he bats her hand away. “Please?”

“Of course I’ll go on Georgie-duty so you can go make out with Stanley.”

“Oh, my God, Bev,” Bill groans, slapping a hand to his forehead as a blush rose across his whole face, and she smiles at him sweetly, resting her hand carefully on his shoulder.

“Hey,” she whispers, and he opens his eyes to look down at her. “You can do this…”

“C-Can I?” Bill asks back meekly, thinking back to how he had felt at their Secret Santa party, how he’s played that night over and over and over in his mind for nearly a year and there isn’t a single version of those events where Stanley couldn’t have ended up hurt. Hell, _Bill_ had been hurt, it just took him longer to realize why he’d spent the rest of that night with an ache in his chest, his lips still tingling from the kisses they’d shared. “I d-don’t want to hurt him again,” he whispers, and Beverly coos.

“I know that,” she nods. “I’m sure he knows that, too. He came on this date with you, didn’t he?” she prompts, and that makes Bill smile again. “Sweetie, you can’t change what happened at the Holiday party,” she shrugs sadly, “but you have some control over what happens tonight… Talk to him about the party if that’ll make you feel better - not tonight, though. That talk can wait, trust me… And when it does come, listen to him,” she begs. “And remember that just because Stan might have been upset about what happened, try your hardest not to make it about you, understand?” Bill nods mutely, knowing precisely what she means, that emotions are bigger than they seem, that it would be selfish and harmful to assume everything Stanley went through while the group was separated was Bill’s fault. “And,” she adds cheekily after pausing for what seems like dramatic effect, “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Beverly pats him on the shoulder before stretching on her toes to peck him on the cheek. “I’m proud of you, Denbrough,” she breathes just as Stanley and Georgie join them, the latter now standing on his own, hand clasped in Stanley’s. “Little man, what d’you say - wanna go ride the bumper cars with me?”

“Aw, but Beverly! I wanna stay with Stanny and Billy!” Georgie pouts, wrapping his arms quickly around Stanley’s thigh, and Stanley nearly topples over with the force of the boy’s hug.

“You don’t wanna go run Richie and Mikey over?” Beverly prompts playfully, kneeling down to the boy’s level, her chin resting on the heel of her hand. Georgie giggles at the mere thought.

“Okay! But we’ll go on more rides together after, right, Stanny?” he asks, looking up at the older boy. Stanley pats him on the head.

“Sure, bud, if there’s still time.” Georgie lets Beverly scoop him into her arms and his laughter fills the space around them until none of them can keep a smile off of their faces, and the pair wave to Bill and Stanley just once before making their way over to the bumper-cars where Mike could just be seen trying to flag them down.

“Do you w-want to go on the F-Ferris wheel? The line isn’t t-t-too long right now,” Bill asks once they’re alone, and Stanley nods bashfully, running a hand through his curls, a nervous tick. Bill goes to reach for Stanley’s hand, and he almost does, but Stanley’s eyes widen in fear, fear of their surroundings, so Bill backs off. “Okay…” he whispers gently, and Stanley nods again, following him as he heads towards the entrance to the Ferris wheel. The ticket-collector tears the tickets Bill hands her in two before handing them back to him and waving them into the next empty cart with a nod, and the two boys clamber inside, Stanley slamming the door of it tightly behind them just as it rises up, up, up until the people below them are just dots on the sidewalk.

“Derry doesn’t seem like much from up here…” Stanley whispers as he peers down at the paper-town below them, watching the fair from above and trying to ignore how close he’s sitting to Bill due to the size of the cart. They might as well be in each other’s laps for how tightly they’re pressed together, and with each small jolt of the wheel, Stanley feels his knee bump against Bill’s. They’re close enough to where Stanley just has to turn his head and it would be on Bill’s shoulder, where he simply has to twist his hand just slightly and he would knot their fingers together. _So, why aren’t you?_ he berates himself, remembering suddenly that they’re completely and blissfully alone and that here, high above Derry, harsh eyes cannot see them. He feels the tension leave his shoulders as he sighs, and he brushes his pinky over Bill’s, eyes trained to the foot of their cart.

Bill’s feels his stomach erupt with butterflies and he twists his hand through Stanley’s in an instant, damning nonchalance straight to hell and feeling instantly glad that he does because as soon as their hands are clasped between them, he is certain he is right, that they are right, and he doesn’t care how many people around them might disagree, how their entire town might very well shun them for having the audacity to exist. Bill could laugh - he doesn’t care. How can he, when his friends, when Georgie, when the only people whose opinions truly hold any merit in his eyes are all but pushing him into Stanley’s arms, into accepting this part of himself that he knows has always been there, waiting for him to be okay with it since last December? He looks at Stanley then, and when he offers him a small, timid smile, he knows he’s more than okay.

“D-Did you have f-fun today?” Bill asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Stanley breathes, a playful glint in his eyes. “I went on a date with a guy - maybe you know him? Sweet as pie, kinda lanky, eyes to die for…”

“Is that s-s-so?” Bill wonders, playing along as Stanley draws himself closer to him, so close that their noses touch. “What’s this cl-clown’s name? I might have to f-fight him off…” Stanley giggles, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he laughs, and Bill wants nothing more than to take him in his arms and kiss him. “Stan,” Bill sighs, pressing their foreheads together and bringing his hand up to trail his thumb across his cheek. “Stan, could I -- ?”

His request is cut off by Stanley’s lips on his own and Bill’s eyes fly open briefly before fluttering closed with a sigh as he melts into the other boy’s waiting embrace, kissing him back sweetly. His hands find their way into Stanley’s curls and he pulls him even closer - he needs him to be as close as possible, to hold him, to feel him in his arms, to feel that he’s real. Bill has had nothing but daydreams and memories since December, nothing to cling to but a fleeting feeling of Stanley’s lips on his, of his hands, of him. This kiss is much different from their kisses during that fateful game of spin-the-bottle; those kisses were clumsy, quick, and amuck with a mixture of teenage hormones and the taste of alcohol on their tongues and in their blood. This kiss is timid, careful, tender - everything a first kiss should be.

“I’m sorry I cut you off,” Stanley whispers against Bill’s smiling lips when they separate for just a second. Bill pecks him on the mouth twice more before Stanley adds, “Was it something important?”

“I was just g-going to ask if I could k-k-kiss you,” Bill answers, his mouth still so close to the other boy’s that their lips brush together when he speaks.

Stanley smiles knowingly, “Oh, was that all? I’m sorry - go ahead, then…”

“Can I...?” Bill begins, but Stanley kisses him again, and Bill laughs helplessly as he kisses him back, arms winding around shoulders, fingers tugging on curls. “You’re cr-crazy.”

“About you, yeah,” Stanley insists, brushing their noses together, and Bill feels like his entire body blushes. “I’ve been waiting for you to kiss me all day, Denbrough…” he admits, and Bill’s heart threatens to barrel through his chest at the thought.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” Bill says, and Stanley grins down at Bill as he plays with their fingers, leaning down to softly kiss the corner of Bill’s smiling mouth.

“You've more than made up for it, I think…” Stanley says, winding his arms around Bill’s waist then. He rests his head on Bill’s shoulder as he turns to peer out over the town, and Bill presses a sweet, gentle kiss to his temple that Stanley leans into immediately. Bill toys with the other boy’s curls absentmindedly and the two sit in a comfortable silence as the Ferris wheel halts for a moment to let other riders off at ground level.

Bill waits until they’re moving again before speaking. “Stanley?” he whispers, and the boy in question hums, his eyes closed peacefully. “Do — um… D-Do you wanna give this a tr-try? Y-You and me?” Stanley scoots further into Bill’s space and opens his eyes to peer up at him, full of adoration.

“More than anything in the world,” he insists, and Bill grins widely, the sight almost blinding, and Stanley can do nothing but grin back before leaning in to kiss him again, just a quick, sweet peck, and when he pulls back, Bill is looking at him softly through hooded eyes, his hand raised to stroke Stanley’s cheek.

The Ferris wheel spins them slowly through the sky and the two of them watch as they’re snatched from the clouds. Bill frowns as Stanley unravels himself from where he is curled around the other boy when they get closer to the ground, and when he looks over at Stanley, he finds him frowning slightly too. “I know, babe,” Stanley whispers and Bill is aching to kiss him again, to bring that blissful smile back to his face.

 _Coming back down to Earth blows,_ Bill thinks, but then Stanley is smiling back at him over his shoulder as they climb out of the cart, and Bill thinks that this town, this life - it can't be all that bad, not if Stanley keeps on looking at him like this.

 

* * *

 

Later that night at Sue’s Diner, they’re all piled into their usual booth, a comfortable semi-circle with plush pink seats, and Richie is being fucking insufferable if you ask Eddie.

Richie had finally won Eddie a stuffed animal at the fair. After working tirelessly at the ring toss for an hour and dropping a whopping $28 dollars, for which Eddie berated him on doing every time he passed him by, hailing that he couldn’t just sit back and watch Richie blow his savings on a damn stuffed animal he could’ve bought for a fifth of the price at CVS, the man running the booth had finally given him what he called a ‘consolation prize’ and handed Richie a medium sized stuffed frog. It was an ugly thing with bug eyes and a thin tongue sticking out, but Richie was so proud of himself that Eddie thought the pride in his win almost made the thing look cute.

Almost.

“Richie, get that thing out of my face, I’m trying to look at the menu,” Eddie huffs, pushing away the frog that Richie has pushed against Eddie’s cheek.

“But Eds, he’s trying to give you a kiss! He’s your child, don’t be a neglectful parent! He’ll grow up thinking he’s unloved!” Richie nearly screams. Eddie shushes him, looking around for Maggie Tozier who is working tonight, thankful when he doesn’t see her on the floor of the diner and assumes she’s in the back.

“Quit it, Rich, your mom’s on shift right now!” Eddie hisses, and Richie’s face goes through a series of complicated emotions: falling, twisting and then finally rising.

“Who cares?” Richie shrugs. “She knows.”

Eddie smiles sadly at him and places a hand in between Richie’s shoulder blades, rubbing his thumb back and forth gently.

“Sorry, babe,” Eddie whispers lowly, knowing that even though he’s sitting next to Beverly who knows about his feelings for Richie and the others are too engrossed in their own conversations to listen to his and Richie’s, he still feels like this moment is just for them.

Richie has always hoped that one day, his mother and him would repair their broken relationship, but it seems to Richie that won’t happen until he’s out of the house and his mother is clean and sober. He doesn’t see the latter happening for a long time, not after the way he’d found her when he came from from Eddie’s the morning after Thanksgiving Day, passed out on their couch, drooling and nearly unconscious. Richie knows what to do in that situation, after years of practice: he tried to wake her up, and then, when she didn’t come to, he sprayed her face with freezing cold water. He was glad she woke up at that, because the next step was tossing her in the shower and making sure she didn’t drown as he tried to wake her, and he hates those times most of all. They’re horrifying moments of uncertainty, and Richie lives his life with an astounding amount of suredness. He is a creature of impulsivity and conviction; he doesn’t live life halfway. So when he’s forced into situations muddled with fear and confusion, his anxiety spikes higher than it does in any other moment. Richie Tozier jumps off cliffs without a second thought, holds hands with boys in the daylight and doesn’t even think to look at the faces of passersby. But when met with the doubt of someone else, Richie crumbles like a paper house in a forest fire. He doesn’t stand a chance in the face of hesitancy.

Richie smiles wanely at Eddie and then looks down at the stuffed animal in his lap. “It’s okay, darlin’. But who you really should be apologizing to is Richie Junior.” He puts the stuffed animal back in Eddie’s face and he sees Eddie shake his head in denial behind it.

“No. That’s not its name.”

“Well, sure, not his _full_ name, silly. His full name is Richie Junior, Our Child, but he gets embarrassed going by that name in public.” He smiles at Eddie sweetly and then back down at the frog. “Don’t you, Richie Junior?”

“Holy shit, are you talking to an inanimate object?”

“He’s not inanimate, Eddie!” Richie gasps. “He’s a beautiful creature who deserves your respect!”

“I’m dating a deranged person…” Eddie mutters, turning to Beverly who’s attempting to tune the two of them out while she scans the menu. “Help me, Bev.”

“You got yourself into this mess,” she hums brightly.

Eddie turns back to Richie. He observes his best friend, hair springy and a bit more wild than usual from all the sweating he did today, the apples of his cheeks sunburned and tinged a delightful shade of pink, the perpetual smile that always seems to be on his face in full-bloom. A small grin develops of Eddie’s face in return at the sight.

“Yeah. I did.” Richie’s smile widens as Eddie looks back down at the menu. He begins trying to pick an order in earnest before Maggie comes over with a pad, a pencil and a tired frown, but Richie doesn’t seem to be having it.

“Daddy, I’m _tired_ ,” Richie whines, putting Richie Junior up in front of his face and leaning in close to Eddie. “Daddy, I’m _hot_. Daddy, I want _chili fries._ ”

“Richie, you just had chili fries at the fair, like, three hours ago,” Eddie protests, refusing to look at him or the stuffed animal. He knows that would only add fuel to the fire that always fans when Richie is given attention.

“Um, excuse me, but Richie Junior, Our Child, has the floor,” Richie responds, affronted. Eddie looks up quickly to see if anybody heard Richie, but they’re all excitedly talking about the last Star Trek movie that came out in the winter, and if it was a good enough end to the series. It seems decently heated and Eddie knows no one is paying attention to them right now. He turns back to Richie and levels the stuffed animal blocking his view of Richie’s face a look.

“I thought Richie Junior didn’t like going by his full name in public,” Eddie says quietly, voice caught between warning and teasing. Richie pulls the frog away from in front of his face and grins.

“Yeah, well, these folks aren’t exactly the general public, now are they, Eddie Spaghetti?” Richie responds warmly, leaning in closer to Eddie, who unconsciously moves towards him in response. They’re nearly nose-to-nose, grinning toothily, when someone clears their throat loudly. Eddie startles, looking around and then up at Maggie Tozier who is leveling him a dark, appraising look. Eddie blushes under the tall woman’s stare.

“You folks all set?” she asks, voice flat, as it usually is when she’s sober. She turns her head almost disinterestedly from where Eddie and Richie are shuffling away from each other. It makes Eddie’s blood boil.

“Yeah,” Eddie grits, grinding his teeth behind his fake smile. “We’re all set.” He wiggles his finger back and forth in the space between himself and Richie. “We’ll have a large plate of chili fries.”

“We will?!” Richie asks excitedly, bouncing a bit in the booth. Eddie laughs.

“Uh huh. And two milkshakes, one strawberry and one chocolate.” Richie beams at Eddie.

“More sugar?” Bill asks warily.

“He’s good to me,” Richie sighs, laying his head on Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie, emboldened by Maggie Tozier’s apathy and the desire to watch her squirm, stares her down with an almost peaceful smile.

“I do what I can.” Eddie shrugs the shoulder that Richie isn’t laying on and Maggie finally looks away.

“Anyone else?” she asks, voice a bit weak and supremely uncomfortable. _Good,_ Eddie thinks. _You deserve to always be uncomfortable after what you’ve put him through. That’s the least of what you deserve._

“I-I-I’ll, uh,” Bill stammers, noticing the palpable tension now that Maggie has strolled up and hoping he didn’t do anything to aide it with his comment, “I’ll have the, uh, um, th-the -- ” Maggie sighs impatiently and Bill looks at Stanley defeatedly, a silent request for him to take over as he points to his selection on the menu.

“We’ll have an order of curly fries, Mrs. Tozier,” Stanley says, voice even and rivalling Maggie’s in its flat tone.

“Fine. Size?” Stanley looks to Bill, who takes a deep breath. _You can do one word, Denbrough,_ he chides internally. _Come on._

“Sm-Small,” he says, voice slow and a bit unsteady, but unmistakable in strength to the six others sitting at the table. They all smile at him while Maggie scribbles furiously. She looks up at the rest of them with her eyebrows raised.

“Nothing for me, thanks,” Beverly says, putting her hand up. “Had my fill at the fair today.”

“Same here,” Mike says. Ben looks torn for a moment and then closes his menu.

“Yeah, me, too,” he sighs. Stanley hooks an arm over his shoulders.

“We idiots aren’t going to finish all our fries, you know,” he says quietly as Maggie collects the menus and storms off without a word, “and we’re gonna need all the help we can get on that front. So if you want in…”

“Thanks, Stanley,” Ben smiles weakly, embarrassed. Richie sighs, angry at his mother for ruining their good moods. He searches for a way to bring the mood back up desperately and then sees the stuffed animal he won Eddie clutched in his own hands.

“Hey, guys,” he says in a deep, throaty Voice that they think may be the voice of the frog as he brings it up to cover his own face, “what’s a frog’s favorite time of year?”

“What, Rich?” Ben sighs patiently.

“Leap Year!” he responds happily, making the frog hop its way over to Ben and has it jump up to kiss his cheek. Ben giggles.

“And what’s this little guy’s name?” he asks with a smile. Richie opens his mouth to respond, but Eddie beats him to it.

“Richie Junior. Horrible, I know.” Ben is too enthralled in observing Richie Junior to notice Richie’s face fall slightly and for Eddie to shoot him a comforting smile.

“Not that bad. He reminds me of his father,” Ben comments mildly with a glint of mirth in his eyes.

“And what exactly are you implying, Uncle Bean?” Richie retorts hotly.

“That you look like a fucking frog,” Ben says, voice bubbly and smile wide. Richie is so glad to see his friends smiling again, even if it’s at his own expense.

“Well, I’ll be!” he gasps. “Eddie my love, is this true? Have you been lying to me about my devilishly good looks all my life?”

“Oh, I’d never,” Eddie responds, voice serious but eyes and smirk alight with devilry. It’s one of Richie’s favorite looks on his boy - he thinks he looks like a pixie maybe, made from mischief and light itself.

“Yeah, I bet…” Richie laughs, slinging an arm around his shoulders. Eddie tenses a bit at this blatant display of affection while everyone is watching them, so Richie also throws his arm on the back of the booth behind Bill. He smiles, but the line of his mouth is tense. Bill and Beverly wish they could help somehow, but it’s clear to them that Eddie doesn’t want to come forth about his and Richie’s relationship for whatever reason, and they’d never betray their friends’ trust. They keep quiet, but share a concerned look over the pair’s heads.

Eddie feels guilty then and decides to throw Richie a bone. He puts his hand out to Ben, palm up. “May I have my child back?”

“ _Your_ child? I thought Richie Junior was Richie’s child?” Eddie shrugs.

“He did win him for me…” Eddie smiles over at Richie who’s watching him carefully. “I guess we can arrange a shared custody agreement.”

“Oh, goody!” Richie bounces, smile bright. “I get to spend some time with my child!”

“You would’ve anyway, Rich - we’re basically attached to the hip.”

“Oh, so you agree, hm?” Richie smiles, leaning down to look at Eddie closely with an eyebrow raised.

“I never disagreed,” Eddie quips, looking away and sniffing. He grabs Richie Junior to hug it close to his chest. “How could I? You follow me around like a fucking virus.”

“Oh, please, I’m _far_ sexier than a head cold,” Richie scoffs. Everyone laughs and Eddie just shrugs primly, looking down at the frog and situating it in his lap. He’s quiet for a moment as his friends continue laughing.

“Never said you weren’t,” he responds quietly. Richie barely hears him over Beverly’s loud cackle, but when the words register, he smiles widely and pulls Eddie closer to his side. Eddie goes willingly, tucking his shoulder into Richie’s armpit snugly. Richie’s smile grows impossibly bigger and nearly kisses the top of Eddie’s head, but he knows that would be in violation of one of their vague rules: no P.D.A. Richie can barely tell the difference between what was a display of affection before and what is now; he personally feels like not a lot has changed on his end where that’s in question. He loved Eddie before they were dating and showed it willingly, just as he does now. But kissing, serious kissing, even if it isn’t on the mouth, feels like stepping over the line, so he keeps that to himself and vows he’ll kiss Eddie later. Maybe on the way home, or tomorrow when they inevitably see one another.

Since beginning their relationship, Richie and Eddie have spent nearly every day together in some form or another. Whether the weather be too hot to terrorize the town and spent the day inside on one of their couches lazily watching television, making fun of the soap operas on in the afternoons with Eddie laughing as Richie dubs over them with his own words and Voices, or outside at the quarry, daring one another to do cannonballs into the water to see who could make the biggest splash, or simply riding their bikes around aimlessly, just trying to spend all the time together they can manage.

Not a lot has changed except the sheer magnitude of time alone they now spend together. It’s been a bit jarring for them both, after spending months on end almost entirely alone, but they’re revelling in it, pulling each other unnecessarily close and holding on tightly enough to bruise, afraid if they let one another go for even a moment, they’ll drift away for good. They both hope they get over that fear soon, but Richie secretly prays Eddie doesn’t lose his clinginess. He didn’t realize how much he’d like being wanted. After years of being discarded and neglected, his presence being important to someone he cherishes so desperately feels absolutely incredible. He doesn’t want to give that up for anything.

Maggie Tozier comes back then with a tray and drops the fries and milkshakes on the table with an unnecessary carelessness. Richie scoffs and she swivels her head to glare at him. Richie shrinks under her harsh gaze, feeling like his mother is the only person on earth he cowers from. It’s been about a week and a half since his mother had a drink, seeing as they ran out of money pretty quickly during July. She’s been trying to pick up extra shifts at the diner to cover it, but the bills are piling up at home, and since his father’s alimony check comes at the beginning of every month, they’ve been just scraping by. Usually, he would’ve argued with Eddie on paying for his meal, but he spent literally all the spare cash he put aside for today earlier in a flurry of hyperactivity and hyperfocus trying to win Eddie a stuffed animal and planned on not eating anything when they went to Sue’s.

Eddie though, knowing Richie is low on spending money this summer due to saving up for the truck he saw in the parking lot of the mechanic, picked up the check easily and willingly, wanting Richie to be as happy as possible. And if chili fries would make his boy happy, he was going to buy him some fucking chili fries, because $3.50 is nothing compared to the delighted smile Richie has on his face as he pops the first one in his mouth. Eddie smiles at him, knowing Richie’s eyes are closed and that he can’t see him, and he wishes he could kiss his cheek. He can’t due to his own implemented rule system, but it’s a close call.

As Bill pushes the plate of curly fries between he, Stanley and Ben, which causes Ben to smile bashfully and gratefully down at the table, Richie begins trying to feed Richie Junior a chili fry.

“Richie! No! You’re gonna mess ‘im up!” Eddie squeals, pulling the stuffed animal away from Richie’s prodding. Richie looks up, then, and his eyes are huge and owlish behind his glasses.

“Eds, he isn’t eating. Do you think he’s sick?” Richie asks worriedly. He puts the back of his hand to Richie Junior’s head and hums. “Yep, a fever for sure. Well, good thing your daddy’s a doctor, old boy. Doctor K is the best in the business, yessir!”

“Shut up, Rich,” Eddie laughs. Richie smiles up at Eddie from where he’s leaned over his lap to examine the frog. He winks and then pulls back to stuff a handful of fries into his mouth.

“Ugh, Rich, gross. Use a fork, your hands are disgusting,” Eddie groans, handing over his cutlery to Richie in a vain attempt to get him to use it.

“This is finger food, Eds,” Richie stresses through a full mouth, which makes Eddie grimace in disgust. “Made for fingers.”

“Yes, but it’s also finger food that’s covered in beans and cheese, you fucking neanderthal,” Eddie sighs, poking the mountain of fries with his fork. Richie wipes his hand off with a napkin and picks up the fork, using it simply to appease Eddie.

“Sorry, can’t talk, mouth is full,” he protests, mouth still full of food. Eddie grunts.

“Just eat, dummy.” Richie nods and salutes.

“Sir, yes, sir!”

Eddie smiles, shaking his head, and looks around at his friends. Bill, Stanley and Ben are all squished together, playfully arguing over who’s going to get what they’ve deemed to be the best curly fry. Beverly’s head is on Mike’s shoulder and he’s running his hand through her curls, laughing at her about her sunburned shoulders and how she should’ve listened to Eddie about applying sunscreen. She grumbles something about it not being her fault Mike’s skin is perfect and Mike absolutely beams, so proud of the melanin in his pigment for more reasons than it being natural sunblock.

Eddie knows they’ve never shied away from being close to one another, but it’s gotten even more obvious over the course of the day after finding out what Stanley went through with his father earlier. They all decided without speaking to one another about it that they needed to be closer after that, even more so than usual. After Stanley and Bill get tired of their fries, Ben starts tossing them into Mike’s mouth from across the table to see who can catch the most in a row while Richie loudly cheers them on. Stanley looks tired after all the anxiety and work he’d been put through that day, and is resting his head on Bill’s shoulder, less afraid to do so in the otherwise empty diner. Their clasped hands do still rest under the table, however, for fear of late-night stragglers. Bill is alternating between watching his friends gorge themselves on fries and turning to kiss the side of his boyfriend’s head. Every time he does, Stanley sighs quietly and snuggles closer to him. Eddie sees that Beverly is smiling the widest out of all of them; she’s never seen Bill happier than in his moment and her heart is soaring watching these two boys come together like they were always meant to.

Eddie, wedged snugly between Richie and Beverly, is quietly observing them all as he always does, feeling surges of different types of affection for each other them; certainly not the same type of affection, but absolutely to the same degree.

He looks at Ben and he remembers the day at the sandlot when he ran to Eddie’s rescue before he even knew his name. Ben’s heart is home to kindness and patience and is so big, it had room to spare for six wayward hitchhikers who wanted to be along for his ride. He’d been so lonely before he met them, but now he’s always hailing that he’s the happiest he’s ever been. Eddie believes there’s no one else on earth he can think of who deserves to be happy more than Ben. Eddie’s sure he’ll always love helpful, heroic, heartsome Ben Hanscom for how his heart beats with sureness and without reservation.

He looks at Mike and he remembers when he first came into their lives, a far more different, far more broken boy who didn’t know where he fit into all of this. He always felt like he was different, the town pariah, because the provincial townsfolk who he and his family only ever tried to serve told him he was. But the longer he told himself to accept that The Losers’ Club was waiting to welcome him with open arms, he found himself becoming a more open person until he flourished into the beautiful, proud man they know today - loud, energetic and full of life. The difference is striking, and Eddie will always love him deeply for choosing to trust them with the tattered and frayed edges of his life.

Eddie looks over to Stanley and he feels proud to know someone like Stanley Uris, to have the honor of being able to call Stanley Uris his friend. Stanley Uris is incredible, Stanley Uris is braver than anyone Eddie has ever met, and Stanley Uris deserves to be just as happy as he is in this moment for the rest of his damn life as far as Eddie is concerned. He knows Stanley’s father is uncaring and unkind to him, exacerbating the symptoms of his OCD for his own personal gain, and just the thought of it makes Eddie feel sick. He hopes that with the help of all of them, they can get Stanley to a place where he doesn’t feel the effects of his father’s cruelty as strongly. Eddie will always love Stanley because of how hard he fights for what he wants and how he tells others to do the same.

He looks at Bill and Eddie could cry, overwhelmed by the serenity on his friend’s face, overcome by the sheer amount of joy that’s pulsing off of him in waves. Bill Denbrough, as anxious and concerned as they come, but who’s never once pushed any of them away out of fear. In fact, if anything, he pulls them all as close to him as he can possibly get them, until they all live inside his skin and make him buzz with comfort and peace and quiet his nerves. Eddie knows how Richie always jokes about Bill being an angel, but he isn’t so sure his boy is wrong about it as he looks at his friend who has found himself in another boy, despite tripping and stumbling along the way. Eddie, who was so certain his hero was infallible, became human to him as he watched him fall in love with Stanley, and that just made Eddie love him even more concretely. He will always love Bill for the way he takes care of them all and never once has asked for anything in return but to be loved and trusted.

Eddie looks at Beverly and he knows that he’s never going to know anybody stronger than Beverly Marsh. Who could ever stand up to her spirit? Who would ever want to? Who could even try? Who could ever snuff out the flames that smoulder deep inside her and keep her going even when she feels like she’s running out of steam? Beverly has been through so much more than anyone their age should, more than anyone at any age should, but it never crushed her, never put out the raging fire that has always burned inside her, bold and unafraid. Eddie knows he will always love her because of the way she pushes on, how she inspires Eddie to push on, how she inspires all of them to persevere through their hardships.

Eddie looks at Richie last, as he always does, and he knows it shouldn’t come as a shock to him that he saves Richie for last anymore, that he waits to look at him because he knows he’ll never want to look away once he does, once his eyes land on this beautiful, loudmouthed boy who would do anything to see the people he loves smile, and Eddie knows then like he’s always known and always will know, that he loves Richie. He will always love Richie, even if there comes a time in the future where they aren’t together. He loves him for all that he is and all that he isn’t, all that he used to be and is now and all that he has yet to become - all of him. He feels like he’s always loved Richie, like it was written in the code of him to love this boy, and he always will love Richie, long after his body dies. His soul will continue on and love Richie in whatever form it takes next; if he goes to Heaven, he will love Richie, if he goes to Hell, he will love Richie, and even if he becomes someone brand new, he will love Richie even still.

Richie has been surreptitiously feeding Richie Junior french fries while Eddie observes his friends and when Eddie notices, he looks up from where he’s crouched down and smiles innocently, hoping it distracts Eddie from the pile of fries in his lap. Eddie smiles and looks away, feeling his eyes well up with tears, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the affection he feels for all of them. He looks down at his hands quickly and Beverly is the first to notice, as she always is. He feels her hand drag across his shoulders, hears her whispers that she loves him, and he smiles down at his shaking fingers, finally resolving that, yes, it’s time to tell them. He has to tell them. And why not now? When they’re all here and happy around him, celebrating love, celebrating each other? Eddie feels Richie slip his hand onto Eddie’s thigh and squeeze it lightly, and with the confidence and elation that brings him, Eddie takes a deep breath and says the words he’s been afraid of his entire life.

“Guys?” They all turn to look at him with smiles on their faces, and Eddie knows there is absolutely nothing to be afraid of. Not with these six people. There never was. He has no idea why he’s waited so long. “I like boys.”

Eddie has always preferred action over words when it comes to this subject, with his sexuality, because he hates having to say it out loud. He’s never uttered the word ‘gay’ in reference to himself, even in prayer, even to the mirror. He is always hoping God will forgive him, that his reflection will forgive him, that he can forgive himself for being born this way. He thinks blunt and simple is the only way to go in this situation. He can’t make eye contact with them though, and instead looks off to the side where he sees Maggie Tozier standing behind the counter staring at him with an unreadable expression. _She heard me,_ he thinks, unbothered by this for reasons he cannot pinpoint, but he surmises has to do with the unshakable safety he feels sitting at this table. _I just inadvertently came out to my boyfriend’s mother before even he has. Well, fuck._ He stares her down for a moment, in a stroke of bravery, and watches her cower in the face of his strength. Eddie has no idea how she feels, but frankly, he could care less. What he cares about are his friends.

He looks back at them to see that their smiles have not dropped, but that most of them are teary-eyed. Stanley, especially, has picked his head up off of Bill’s shoulder and now has silent tears running down his cheeks, so incredibly glad to be _Eddie Kaspbrak’s_ friend. Beverly’s smile looks like it’s threatening to take over her entire face. Ben gasps in shock, shock that Eddie feels that level of trust with him after only knowing him for such a short amount of time, forever grateful and permanently in denial that he’s found such a perfect group of friends. Mike stretches out his hand immediately, needing to show Eddie through physicality more than his words can betray that he is absolutely here with him, and Eddie takes it without a second thought. Richie’s hand tightens its hold on Eddie’s thigh briefly like a vice, and then it releases once the shock has worn off and begins stroking the skin where his shorts have ridden up lightly, so overwhelmingly proud of Eddie he could drown in it.

And Bill wants to absolutely burst with joy. He’s seen Eddie go through so many different stages of development: Ed Kaspbrak, his lost father’s sickly son. Edward Kaspbrak, the prim and only improper when toeing outside the lines of his rigidly drawn-in life. Eddie Bear, his mother’s caged boy, unknowingly healthy and unknowingly abused. Eds, the angry ball of fury who bowls down everyone in his path from how much pent-up aggression he’s had to bottle due to the fact that he can’t direct it at who truly deserves it. And now, he sees Eddie as he was always meant to be: chest to the sky, back straight, full of confidence and pride about and for who he is. Bill Denbrough is absolutely overcome with gratitude for the rest of his friends for helping Eddie get to this place, this diner, this booth, this state of mind. He likes to think Eddie would’ve gotten here with or without them all, but he knows it definitely expedited the process to be so comfortable and wholly safe within the hearts of six perfect people.

And so, Bill speaks, because even though he sort-of-knew already, he feels like he should be the one to tell him. “Good.”

Bill smiles and Eddie feels the word echo through him, vibrating his insides with joy. _Good._ It’s a good thing that he told them, it’s a good thing he’s gay, it’s a good thing that he’s Eddie. Eddie smiles back and places his hand on top of Richie’s where it’s resting on his thigh, unseen by everyone else, but enough to let Richie know that they’re in this together.

“Good.”

Eddie thinks they need each other for different things. If they are a ship, then Mike is the lighthouse, the beacon of strength and the calm in every storm. He is what leads them home - he is solid ground. Ben is the smile when it feels impossible, the love that drives them, the compass that helps them know the right way to go. Beverly is the rope that ties them all to one another, making sure no one falls away, and deciding when it’s best to let go for a little while, only to come back loving stronger, tougher, fiercer. Bill is the sails, deciding the direction, knowing what’s best simply by being, knowing what will keep them all out of the storm. Stanley is the anchor that keeps them all grounded, safe, keeps them steady, keeps them from floating out to sea. Richie is the birds in the sky, calling out to them when they feel most alone, always there, never too affected by the wars of the sea. Georgie, of course, asleep in his bed, is the moon itself, pulling the tides, giving them all peace, even if only for a night. And then there’s Eddie, the waves, the salt of the ocean, ebbing and flowing, pushing them forward and keeping them all upright with purpose and knowledge wiser than even he is aware of, a navigator of sorts in a different way than Bill and Ben. He pushes them all in the right direction, but he also holds them up, keeps them all afloat even when it seems impossible. He is deeply affected by the storm, but still never lets them sink.

Without any of these, there would be a shipwreck. Without the morale the birds give, without the completing purpose of the compass, without the rope and the anchor working in tandem to push and pull, without the comfort of the lighthouse, without the certainty of the sails, without the excitement of the waves, without the safety of the moon, they would sink. None of these alone would bring them home. But together, they can weather any storm. Together, they can fight the wars the whole world throws their way. Together, they can do what they could never accomplish alone.

Eddie looks over to Maggie Tozier then, and smiles at her despite her deep frown. He thinks that maybe there are many storms that will pass through their path and try to wreck them. But as he turns back to his crew, his club, his Losers, Maggie already forgotten, he knows resolutely and with more certainly than he knows anything else that storms always pass.

 

* * *

 

When Georgie comes home from his first day of first grade looking close to tears, Bill isn’t sure what to do. His parents are out for the day, off running a few errands before they head to a company dinner being held for Zachary Denbrough’s department at work, and so Bill is watching his little brother for the evening. He doesn’t mind babysitting Georgie at all, but when he had leapt off the school bus and took off for their house, head held down and without so much as a hello for his big brother, Bill knew immediately that something was wrong. He thought about calling his mother, but he decides against it, wanting her to enjoy her night out as she gets so very few of them and he is certain that learning her younger son was upset would bring her back home in seconds. Bill doesn’t think that will do much good as Georgie will not even tell him what’s wrong. There is one thing, however, that Bill knows for sure: he will not allow this day to end until he brings a smile back to that little boy’s face.

Such a task usually is no problem for Bill, seeing as Georgie is usually always giddy, bouncing around with an air of inconceivable joy bubbling out of him at all times. But today, the boy is quiet as he sits cross-legged on the sofa, doing his homework without so much as a single complaint when Bill tells him he has to complete at least a little bit of it before he can run off and play. It is still summer for another few weeks, the weather doing an exceptional job of being a huge tease for all of Derry’s children, and so Bill grows especially concerned when he suggests he and Georgie play soccer in the backyard and the boy turns the offer down flat.

“What?” Bill balks, his eyes widening dramatically when he sits down beside his brother, ducking his head to try to get a better look at his face as he peers down at the math problems he’s working on. “Georgie Denbrough would rather stay cooped up inside all afternoon than kick a ball around with his big brother?” he says in a teasing tone, poking at his side. “Is it a full moon tonight or something?” Georgie shrugs his shoulder but says nothing, and Bill’s face falls. “Hey, little man -- ”

“I’m not little, Billy!” Georgie huffs, angrier than he usually would be with the sentiment, and Bill’s forehead scrunches a bit in confusion.

“Okay,” Bill nods. “Do you want to talk to me right now?” he asks carefully, hoping it’s in a way that his brother will know that it’s entirely up to him how much he does or does not share with him, but that he’s there to listen if that’s what he wants.

“Not really,” he says it quietly, almost like he’s ashamed, like he thinks this will hurt Bill, but when he looks up from the papers in his lap, Bill is smiling, nodding.

“Okay, Georgie,” Bill insists. “You don’t have to. I’m gonna do some work of my own, but I’m here when -- if you want to talk, okay?” Georgie nods, and the corners of his mouth twitch up into a little smile that he hopes is enough to ease some of the concern he recognizes in his big brother’s eyes. Bill squeezes his shoulder and then pushes himself off of the sofa, heading into the kitchen to make a phone call. He might not know what’s going on with Georgie, but he knows his little brother, and so he knows precisely how he can brighten up his day.

  
_“Stanny!”_ Georgie shrieks, leaping into his arms and tossing his own around the older boy’s neck when he opens their front door to find Stanley on the other side, smiling down at him. “What’re you doing here?” he shouts just as Bill joins them in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against it.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Stanley says simply, winking over Georgie’s shoulder at his boyfriend, “and I figured I’d stop by and see how my favorite first grader is doing. So what’s the deal, kiddo? Break any hearts today?” Georgie laughs brightly, ducking his head to hide in Stanley’s shoulder, and the sound almost brings tears to Bill’s eyes. It will never cease to amaze him how good Stanley is, and not just with children. He’s good overall, managing to lift Georgie’s spirits in just minutes, and Bill is speechless watching the two of them. “What are you two up to?”

“We were j-just about to order p-p-pizza,” Bill explains, and Stanley lets out a groan.

“I’m jealous,” he whines, and Bill has to try not to laugh when Georgie lets out a gasp.

“Billy, can Stanny stay for dinner?” he asks. “Please, please, please, please!” he cries, bouncing in Stanley’s arms so wildly the older boy struggles not to drop him a few times, chuckling fondly.

“I d-don’t see why not,” Bill nods, stepping aside to let Stanley carry his brother back into the house. Georgie is speaking a mile a minute now, a stark difference from the silence he and Bill have been stewing in the last few hours, and Stanley is listening simply as the boy barrels on, dropping from his arms then in favor of grabbing hold of his hand and leading him into the living room.

“Stanny, if you and Billy are watching me, we can play Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!” Stanley’s smile is blinding as he stares back at the little boy who is practically buzzing beside him. “Billy and I always play Turtles, but it’s more fun if we have other people, too, so now you can play with us! Billy’s Leonardo since he’s the big brother! And I’m Michelangelo since he’s the littlest brother -- ”

“And the coolest,” Bill reminds, poking Georgie’s side, and the little boy giggles, shrinking out of his reach as he clings closer to Stanley. “And he eats the most p-p-pizza just like another little br-brother I know…” Georgie swats his big brother’s hand away when he tries to tickle him again, turning instead to face Stanley again, tugging on his hand.

“So you can either be Raphael or Donatello, Stanny,” Georgie explains.

“Who do you think I’d be best as?” Stanley prompts, furrowing his brow inquisitively, and Georgie taps his chin slowly, face scrunched up in thought.

“I think you’d be the best Donnie ever!” the little boy swears after a moment of silence, and Bill hums in approval, appraising his boyfriend as he looks him up and down. “What do you think, Billy?”

“I’d have to agree…” he admits. “But I think we’ll have to get to playin’ for us to be completely sure…”

  
The doorbell rings and Bill breaks away to answer it in the midst of the Nerf gun war that he and Georgie are absolutely going to win. He can still hear Georgie squealing from where he’s taken cover behind the sofa in the living room, waiting for his brother to return to aid in Stanley’s takedown.

“Surrender!” Georgie shouts, firing another foam dart at Stanley when the older boy suddenly makes a mad dash for the hallway, peering tentatively around the wall as he bends forward with gleeful laughter.

“Never!” Stanley yells back, pushing the hand-towel that he’d tied around his forehead further up on his head as it had fallen in his eyes, and this causes some of his curls to get crushed to his head. He grins at Bill when he feels his eyes on him, sending a wink in his direction, and Bill is still blushing when he pulls the door open to find the pizza delivery guy on their porch, ladened with boxes.

“Two large pies and an order of cheesy breadsticks?” he prompts, handing them over to Bill, who takes them with a nod before fishing the cash his parents left them for food out of his pocket and handing it over.

“K-Keep the change,” he smiles, and the delivery guy tips his hat in thanks before heading back down the porch steps and back to his car where it is sitting idling in the Denbrough driveway. Bill closes the door with his foot and cries, “C-Cease and desist, men! It’s d-dinner time!” He hears the clatter of Nerf guns being dropped to the floor and soon his brother and Stanley are beside him, the latter smiling at his boyfriend as he relieves him of one of the pizza boxes before leading them into the dining room.

“Billy, can I have two slices?” Georgie asks as he clambers up onto one of the chairs at the table, flipping the nearest box open, eyes scanning over the whole pie to locate the slice with the most pepperoni on it.

“Sure thing, Georgie,” Bill allows, plating a slice for his brother when he finally points to it happily, “we ordered enough…” He takes a plain slice from the other box and hands it over it to Stanley, who takes it from him and digs in immediately. A few moments pass in silence before Bill asks if anyone wants a drink.

“Apple juice, please!” Georgie chimes around a generous mouthful of pizza, sauce lining the edges of his lips, and Bill chuckles. Stanley shakes his head, gesturing to the water bottle he’d brought from home, and so Bill pops up from his seat to fetch drinks for his brother and himself. When he opens the fridge, he frowns.

“I don’t think there’s any left, sport,” he says, and Georgie’s face falls.

“Aww,” he pouts, but then Bill’s face brightens.

“Hold on, I’ll go check the fridge in the c-cellar,” he says, and he catches Stanley’s eye briefly, his own widening in a way that tells Stanley, very simply: now. Stanley nods wordlessly, and then Bill yanks the door leading down to the cellar open and heads down the stairs, tugging on the light string just over his head to give himself some light.

Once Bill is well out of earshot, Stanley leans a bit closer to Georgie, settling his arms on the table and resting his chin on his folded hands. “Say, pal,” he starts, and Georgie looks up from his fourth breadstick with bright eyes, turning to face the older boy, “how was your first day of school?” Stanley immediately understands why Bill had sounded so concerned over the phone when he had called and asked him to come over, why he didn’t call their mother instead. Georgie’s shoulders slump, his eyes dropping back to his plate as he gives Stanley a small shrug, and he starts to pick at the food in front of him, tearing cheese slowly off of the bread in tiny pieces before popping them slowly into his mouth. “That’s all I get, huh?” Stanley whispers gently, tilting his head curiously and doing his best to keep his hands steady where they rest on the table. He doesn’t have a little brother, but he has always viewed Georgie as his own, and seeing him upset and not knowing why, and worse, not knowing how he can help him feels a lot like how Stanley would imagine torture to feel.

“Stanny, why’s it hard to forget mean things people say?” Georgie asks quietly, and Stanley lets out a slow, measured breath, blinking a bit when he feels the start of tears forming in his eyes.

“I don’t know, buddy,” he admits, and Georgie’s lip starts to shake. “It doesn’t seem fair, but just because you can’t forget it, that doesn’t make it true, Georgie.” He puts a careful hand on the little boy’s shoulder and jostles him a little bit, leaning down a bit so that they’re at eye level, and Stanley doesn’t bother to conceal the tears in his eyes once Georgie lets out a hiccup, tears of his own collecting on his long lashes. “What happened, buddy? Did someone say something mean to you?” Georgie nods. “Do you want to tell me what they said?”

“Are you…” Georgie whispers, sniffling. “Are you gonna tell Billy?”

Stanley hums. “Not without your permission, pal.” Georgie nods again, this time more to himself, and then he squares his shoulders in a way that reminds Stanley so much of Bill that it almost makes him laugh. He runs a gentle, comforting hand along Georgie’s arm as the boy tries to collect himself, and he waits patiently for him to speak, and once he does, it’s like a floodgate has opened and all of his words seem to rush out of him in one breath.

“Miss Holmes made everybody say what their favorite thing about summer was, and when it was my turn, I told everyone about playing with Billy and you and Richie and everyone and Ryan said -- ” He cuts himself off suddenly, his cheeks flushing, and Stanley feels his heart splinter and crack in his chest. “He said that only babies like to be with their big brothers all the time…” Stanley grimaces and Georgie hiccups again. “I’m not a baby, am I?”

“No, sir,” Stanley shakes his head quickly. “Wanting to spend time with your brother does not make you a baby, Georgie,” he promises, curling his hands around the boy’s shoulders and looking him right in the eye. “You have the best big brother in the world, and I know you know that,” he adds with a small smile, and Georgie nods adamantly. “Anybody who had Billy as their big brother would wanna be with him all the time. Does Ryan have a big brother?”

“No.” Stanley hums, nodding.

“Than he doesn’t know how special big brothers are. It’s sad that he chooses to make fun of something just because he doesn’t understand it, and I’m so sorry he hurt you,” he insists, pulling Georgie into a tight hug and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Just know that your relationship with your brother is a good thing, no matter what anyone says, and that being close with Billy is so so special. Not everybody has a big brother that loves them the way Billy loves you - you’re lucky. And he’s lucky to have a younger brother like you, too…” He looks down and sees a grin stretching slowly across the little boy’s face as he plays with the strings of Stanley’s hoodie. “And I want you to know, Georgie, that you can always talk to me about something that’s bothering you. Billy, too. We’re here to help you, buddy - that’s what big brothers and pals are for, you know.”

“I know… Thank you,” Georgie nods, and he cranes his neck to kiss Stanley’s cheek. “Love you, Stanny.”

“And I love you, Georgie,” the older boy promises just as they hear the tell-tale creak of the cellar door sound from behind them. Stanley whirls around just as Bill comes into view, and Georgie stretches to peer over his shoulder at his brother, who smiles at the pair of them happily, waving the juicebox in front of him.

He doesn’t say a word about the tear stains on either of their faces, just retakes his seat, making sure to let his hand linger a bit longer than usual on Georgie’s shoulder once he hands over his drink, and he almost bursts into tears of his own when Georgie reaches up and grabs his hand without a word, holding it for the duration of dinner. Bill looks at his boyfriend overtop of Georgie’s head, mouthing “Thank you,” when he sees how much more at ease Georgie seems. Stanley waves his praise aside with a casual flick of his wrist, but Bill catches his hand, linking their fingers gently together before bringing their hands to his lips so he can kiss Stanley’s knuckles. He presses them to his cheek, leaning into Stanley’s palm, and Stanley nods wordlessly, brushing his thumb over his lip softly.

“Billy?” Georgie asks suddenly, kicking his feet beneath him as he nurses his juicebox slowly, and Bill looks down at him, eyes shining.

“Hmm?” he wonders, arching his brow as Georgie toys with the hand that’s still on his shoulder.

“Will you tell me two bedtime stories tonight?” he pleads, looking up at him through his eyelashes, and Bill’s face nearly splits in half from the blinding grin that blooms on his face. He nods.

“Sounds like a plan, sport.”

  
Georgie actually ends up falling asleep in Stanley’s lap around nine o’clock after he had coerced Bill into telling him not one, not two, but three bedtime stories, and the older brother simply could not deny him a thing if he tried. Once Georgie was satisfied, he had curled up in Stanley’s lap and fallen asleep in minutes, the older boy’s sweatshirt knotted in his small hands as his breath rattles through his lips.

“His a-allergies are wild this t-t-time of year,” Bill whispers as he pushes the little boy’s hair from his forehead, and Georgie sniffles almost on cue, shifting a bit in Stanley’s embrace. He adjusts himself so that his face is buried in the older boy’s throat and Stanley smiles down at him, scratching at his back lightly. Bill is starry-eyed as he watches the two of them, and he rests his cheek against his boyfriend’s shoulder. “Th-Thank you for coming over, hon... You r-really make him so happy...”

“Oh, you’re welcome, Billy,” Stanley insists, turning to kiss his brow sweetly. “You know I’d do anything for the little man…” Bill hums and wraps his arms around both of them. “And you, too, I guess,” he adds after a beat of silence, a playful smirk on his face that all but takes Bill’s breath away.

“Oh, gee, th-thanks,” Bill giggles quietly, and he shoves the other boy gently so as not to wake his sleeping brother. “Think we sh-should put him in his bedroom?” he asks and Stanley nods, hooking his own arms beneath Georgie’s so that he can hoist him more securely into his arms before getting to his feet. Bill stands up as well, marveling over the way that Stanley has managed to not disturb Georgie’s sleep, and he follows him up the steps to his little brother’s bedroom. Stanley nudges the door open with his toe and Bill ducks around him to flip the light switch on, untucking Georgie’s comforter from beneath his pillows so that Stanley can deposit him gently beneath it. They manage to get Georgie nestled in beneath his blanket and make it half-way out of the room before they hear him start to stir, and the little boy sits bolt-right up in bed, his eyes flying open with a gasp.

“Billy?” he cries, and Bill is at his side in seconds, nearly knocking Stanley over to get back to his bedside. He sits down and Georgie is immediately in his lap, throwing his arms around his brother’s shoulders and hiding his face in Bill’s throat.

“I’m right here, buddy,” Bill promises, rubbing his back, and Georgie sniffles. “What’s wrong?”

“Monsters,” the little boy answers simply, and Bill coos.

“Oh? I thought Mama got rid of those last night, huh?” he prompts, knowing that his little brother has always been prone to nightmares, and Georgie shakes his head quickly.

“Came back,” he insists, voice small. “Make them go away, Billy… Please…” Bill nods, untangling himself from his brother’s hold, and he drops down to the floor to lift up what little bit of the comforter hangs down over the bed so that he can peer beneath it. Nothing looks back at him except an old pair of Georgie’s soccer cleats and some forgotten green army men, but he knows better than to dismiss anyone’s fears, no matter how irrational they seem.

“Hey!” Billy shouts with all the gusto he can muster, and Stanley cannot mask the fond smile that creeps onto his face then. “If there are any monsters hiding under here, you better get lost!” Bill pops back onto his feet. “I think they’re gone, pal…”

“Can you check the closet too, Stanny?” Georgie begs, and the other boy nods, bopping his nose affectionately while Bill gets to his feet to sit beside Georgie once more. Stanley crosses over to the closet, brushing his hand against Bill’s as he goes, and they share a quiet smile before Stanley opens the closet door and pokes his head inside, looking from left to right slowly.

“Any monsters in here?” he asks loudly so that Georgie is sure to hear him. “No? Well… If there are, I think you better find someplace else to hide! Stay out of Georgie’s room, you understand?” When he turns back towards the bed, it is to find Georgie with a timid but grateful smile on his face. “All clear, little man.”

“Thank you…” he whispers, and Bill hugs him close to his chest once more before tucking him back into bed and bringing his comforter back up to rest near his chin where he likes it. “Thanks, Billy…”

“Love you, Georgie,” Bill replies, ruffling his hair, and Georgie smiles.

“I love you, too,” the little boy says. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, pal,” Stanley whispers from where he’s leaning against the doorframe, smiling at the sight before him. “Sleep tight…”

“We’ll be right downstairs if you need us, Georgie,” Bill promises, standing up to follow Stanley out of the room. He reaches for the light switch, but Georgie lets out a little whimper.

“On, please,” is all he says, and Bill nods.

“You got it, kiddo.”

Georgie smiles and lets his eyes close at last. He is asleep before Bill and Stanley even make it downstairs.

  
“You need some help with those?” Stanley wonders as he watches his boyfriend carry the dinner plates over to the sink. Bill shakes his head, shooting a sweet smile over his shoulder at the other boy as he turns the faucet on and wets the sponge in his hand and drags it across the first plate, washing it thoroughly. “Here,” Stanley whispers, taking the plate from him once it’s sparkling, and Bill looks up to see him holding a towel, “how ‘bout I dry?” Bill smiles again.

“Th-Thank you,” he says, and Stanley winks at him in response. For a few minutes, the only sound is the running water and the clinking of plates as Stanley puts them in the dish rack sitting on the counter beside the coffee pot, but then Bill turns away from the sink, choosing to prop his back against it instead and fold his arms across his chest as he peers softly at Stanley. “Hon?” he asks, and Stanley looks up. “Are y-you really not gonna t-tell me what Georgie said?” Stanley gives him a small, sad smile.

“I promised him, Billy,” is all he says, and Bill nods, his eyes closing. He feels Stanley’s arms snake around his waist, feels his lips against his forehead, and he lets out a low, calculated breath through his nose. “He’ll tell you when he’s ready…”

“I kn-know,” Bill sighs, coiling his arms around his boyfriend’s shoulders to draw him closer. “I just w-wanna help him…”

“I know, I know. He’s a strong kid, he’ll bounce back. He’s gonna be okay,” Stanley offers up, his lips brushing the other boy’s forehead softly, and he looks down at him, relieved to see the ghost of a smile on Bill’s face. “Don’t worry, baby...” Bill lets out a snort.

“Th-That’s cute,” he muses as he toys with the tighter curls near the nape of Stanley’s neck. “You kn-know it’s not that simple…”

“Hmm,” Stanley hums. “I think it could be with the right distraction,” he shrugs, and then he ducks to seal their lips together, bringing one of his hands up to cradle Bill’s face, his palm pressed flush to his cheek while his thumb traces his cheekbone. Bill laughs into the kiss, stretching on his toes just a bit and drawing Stanley closer to him, threading his fingers through his curls, and he is sure he has never felt safer than he does in Stanley’s arms. He pulls back a bit to look into Bill’s eyes, both of them breathing a bit heavier now. “You know, I still can’t believe it sometimes…” he admits in a whisper, brushing his thumb across Bill’s lower lip before drawing him into another kiss, this one quicker, more of a peck, but just as sweet as the first. “That I get to kiss you like this… That you want me to…”

Bill feels his chest tighten at those words, and suddenly his blood runs cold as shame washes over him. He knows that he’s wanted this since their Holiday Party, maybe even longer if he was going to be completely honest with himself, and the fact that Stanley is downright stunned that Bill would want him back makes his stomach twist. He thinks back to those long months without him, without their friends, how much he’d missed them all, how much he’d missed Stanley, how there was more he could have and should have done, and he feels his hands start to shake where they’re resting at the back of Stanley’s neck.

“Angel, what’s wrong?” Stanley hushes when he starts to feel it too, his eyes narrowing a bit in confusion, and Bill just tosses his arms even further around him, hugging him tightly, and Stanley feels like someone’s knocked the wind out of him when a few of Bill’s tears splash against his throat. “Hey…” he coos, rubbing Bill’s back. “Hey, what is it? Talk to me…” he whispers even though he’s frightened, even though he’s so afraid of what his response might be.

“I-I-I’m so-so-sorry,” Bill whimpers, and Stanley just looks even more befuddled, his brows quirking together, and Bill opens his mouth to elaborate, but all that comes out is choked sobs and a few incoherent words, strangled by his stutter which always grows worse when he’s upset. Eventually though, Stanley is able to work out what he is trying to say. “I w-w-was hurting you… All that t-t-t-t -- fuck… Wh-When I was with B-Bev, y-you were h-hurting -- ”

“Oh, Billy,” Stanley coos, rubbing his back, “you’re not trying to apologize for dating Bev, are you?” He almost lets out a quiet chuckle, but he stifles it when he feels Bill quake in his arms again. He holds him tighter. “You don’t owe me anything, you know that right?”

“I w-was hurting you. I w-was af-f-fraid after wh-what happened at the pa-pa-party… Afraid of how I f-felt about you...” Bill starts again, his voice shaking as much as his hands, and Stanley presses a soothing kiss to his temple, but does not interrupt, recognizing that Bill needs to get this out, and in his own time. “S-So I b-b-buried it, and I h-hurt you in the process and I’m s-s-s-sorry…” Stanley hums quietly and scratches at Bill’s back lightly, comfortingly, before responding.

“Thank you for apologizing, but it’s not necessary,” he swears. “You have nothing to feel guilty over, Bill…” he stresses, pulling back slightly so that he can take his boyfriend’s face in his hands. Bill looks remarkably like Georgie when he cries, his blue eyes bright and glassy and his cheeks flushed. “I have a mouth, too, you know. I could’ve just as easily told you how I was feeling.”

“That’s n-n-not the point,” Bill cries, shaking his head, and Stanley kisses the bridge of his nose, keeping his lips pressed there while Bill takes in a deep breath.

“I’m not upset with you,” Stanley promises, shaking his head. “I’m not angry with you. I’m not angry at Bev,” Bill lets out a whimper, shocked but not surprised that Stanley was able to read that very real fear of his without Bill even having to voice it, the fear that he might have driven a wedge between Beverly and Stanley with his actions, might have caused any sort of resentment between them. “I meant what I said when I said you two made a good couple. You were good for each other for the time you were together. It was what you both needed, and I loved you both enough to be able to see that even though it made me sad that I wasn’t with you. Bill, please, believe me when I say I don’t want you to feel bad about something that made you happy.”

“You make me happy,” Bill insists firmly, and the smile that breaks out across Stanley’s face then is blinding. “So, so happy… I c-can’t believe it t-t-took me this long to r-realize I wanted to be with you…”

“Hey,” Stanley sighs, hugging him close, “better late than never, yeah?” Bill nods against Stanley’s shoulder and just lets the other boy hold him, lets relief wash over him at finally voicing what’s been bothering him since he realized he liked Stanley and relishing in the fact that he was wrong, that Stanley doesn’t hate him for dating Beverly. Everybody always jokes that Bill has all the right answers all the time, but in this moment, Bill is so, so happy to have missed the mark entirely. “You okay, baby?”

Bill nods. “I am now… Thank you,” he whispers, pulling out of his arms just enough to kiss Stanley’s cheek softly, and Stanley raises his hand to his lips to kiss his knuckles. Bill looks over his boyfriend’s shoulder at the clock hanging on the dining-room wall. “It’s a-almost 10 o’clock. Did you w-wanna spend the night?”

“I’d love to,” Stanley smiles. “Your folks won’t mind?” Bill shakes his head.

“I a-already asked Mom,” he says, and Stanley grins.

“Did you now?” he teases, running his hand up Bill’s side, tickling him, and Bill lets out a breathless giggle as he squirms in Stanley’s arms.

“St-Stop!” he squeals. “Stop or you’re sl-sleeping on the couch!” Stanley halts in his tickling, opting instead to duck down and kiss Bill’s throat, his hands finding their way to his hips.

“Empty threats,” he breathes knowingly, nibbling lightly on Bill’s jaw as he presses a line of kisses from his neck to his ear, and Bill sighs, his eyes closing as he leans into Stanley’s touch. “C’mon, let’s get to bed...”

Bill nods, feeling his sleepiness finally starting to seep through his whole body, making his limbs feel like jello, and Stanley takes a step back so that Bill can link their fingers together and guide him up the stairs. They tiptoe past Georgie’s bedroom, peering inside to check on him, and they smile when they see him still fast asleep, his cheek pressed to his folded hands where they rest against his pillow. Bill tugs on his boyfriend’s hand gently, and they make their way past his brother’s room and into his own. He digs two pairs of sweatpants out of his dresser drawer, tossing one of them to Stanley, who disappears into the bathroom to change out of his jeans while Bill changes in his bedroom.

When Stanley returns, Bill is already under the covers, and he smiles up at him before he takes in the sight of his boyfriend in his sweatpants that are absolutely too small for him. The pants are hanging as low on his waist as they possibly can without being ridiculous, and still the legs stop well above his ankles, and quite frankly, Bill cannot breathe.

“Oh my god,” he giggles as Stanley climbs into the bed beside him and shoves him lightly. “I c-c-can’t believe you. And I th-thought Richie’s growth spurts were crazy!”

“Don’t be mean,” Stanley whines, but his eyes are bright, his smile at ease, and he buries himself in Bill’s chest, sighing when the other boy’s arms find their way around his midsection to pull him closer. “I can’t help it, I’m a growing boy!” Bill chuckles as he kisses his forehead, and Stanley’s smile droops a little. “Billy… You’re sure your parents won’t come in here?”

“I’m s-sure,” Bill insists. “They only ch-check on Georgie…” Stanley cannot help but note the touch of sadness in his boyfriend’s voice, and so he bumps his forehead against Bill’s lightly until the other boy giggles. “Do you w-wanna sleep on the floor just in case? L-Like when we were little?” Stanley’s head shoots up quickly, his smile so bright and genuine that Bill cannot help but smile back. “I take that as a yes, then…”

The pair of them make a fort out of all of the pillows and blankets on Bill’s bed, grabbing some extras from the hall closet to add to the floor just in case, and once they’re satisfied with their creation, they scramble inside, laughing and pushing one another and feeling lighter than air. Bill especially feels weightless now that he’s confessed his fears to this boy who’s managed to make them all but vanish in no time at all, this boy whose smile makes him feel like he’s hit the lottery. Stanley bops Bill upside the head with one of the smaller pillows and they both let out loud, full-belly laughs before shushing one another for fear of stirring Georgie in the next room. Stanley looks at Bill, his blue eyes grey and shrouded in the shadows casted over his face by the blanket tent over their heads, and he surges forward, sealing their lips together in a kiss. Bill hums and brings his hands up to press them to either side of Stanley’s face, and they lie back on the pillows behind them, wrapping themselves up in one another.

Stanley pulls back first. “Hi,” he breathes, and Bill chuckles.

“Hi. I’m glad you c-came over today…”

“So am I,” Stanley grins. They share just one more kiss before tugging the blanket at their feet up and around their bodies, and they fall asleep facing one another, arms and legs braided together, chests rising and falling in perfect tandem.

 

* * *

 

When Eddie wakes up in his boyfriend’s arms, feeling his quiet breaths of air ruffling his hair each time he breathes, he smiles sleepily and snuggles further into Richie’s embrace, shutting out the very real possibility that his mother could come barging in at any moment. Eddie convinces himself then that he doesn’t care, that it’d almost be worth it so long as he could just lie here a moment longer. Richie had come over after the first day of school yesterday, and left at 7:00 when Eddie’s mother came in and told him to, only to climb back through the window a few minutes later. He feels Richie stir a bit and his smile grows when Richie turns to press a kiss to the top of his head.

“Good morning,” Eddie sighs, and Richie hums in response, trailing his hand up and down the smaller boy’s spine. “You sleep okay?”

“Never better, pumpkin,” Richie promises, his voice thick with sleep still, and Eddie shifts a bit so that he can prop himself up on his elbow, the heel of his hand cupped in his palm as he gazes down at him. Richie rests one of his arms behind his head while the other coils around Eddie’s waist, drawing him closer, and Richie bumps their noses together. “How ‘bout you?”

Eddie nods, smiling softly down at him. “Fine,” he whispers, not wanting to break the spell over the room. Richie kisses the bridge of his nose, making him giggle before Richie turns towards the bedside table where his glasses are resting atop a pile of Eddie’s new textbooks and a few records. He unfolds them with a yawn and rubs at his eyes a bit before returning them to his face, and once he has, he looks down at the record on top of the pile and lets out a gasp.

“Oh, no,” he groans, hand flying to his forehead dramatically as he looks through his parted fingers at the Backstreet Boys record like he’s waiting for it to leap off the table and attack him. “Ben has infected you.”

“He has not, you loser!” Eddie squeals, blushing vibrantly. “He just let me borrow it!”

“I can’t believe this,” Richie sighs, shaking his head. “I’ve spent years trying to get you cultured, Eds, and this is where your music taste ends up?”

“My music taste is just fine, thank you very much,” he argues and Richie scoffs.

“Yeah, all thanks to me,” Richie shoots back as Eddie shakes his head. “Your music taste is solely borne from my influence, baby boy.” He gets to his feet after squirming out from beneath Eddie who rolls his eyes at him, making Richie wonder how it could be possible for anybody to ever look that cute so early in the morning.

“I don’t just listen to your mixes, you know!”

Richie snickers. “Sure, Eds…” He entertains the thought mildly as he reaches for the other boy’s Walkman where it is sitting on the dresser, and says, “I’ll bet you a million bucks one of my mixes is sitting in here right now,” before Eddie can register what’s about to happen, before he can stop Richie. He has to stop him, because he may not have used that Walkman in months but he knows exactly which mixtape is sitting in there.

Richie presses PLAY.

The haunting chorus of _Ne Me Quitte Pas_ fills the otherwise silent room, the sound tinny but utterly unmistakeable through Eddie’s headphones, and Richie drops the cassette player like it’s burned him. It clatters to the floor and breaks, cutting Nina Simone off so abruptly it might have made them laugh any other time. Eddie hears it break, but he couldn’t care less about that - all he cares about in this moment is Richie. Richie, who looks like his edges are blurred because of how badly he’s begun to shake. Richie, who looks like he’s about to be sick. Richie, who is collapsing to the floor in a heap, trembling hands reaching for the pieces of the cassette player littering Eddie’s bedroom floor and scooping them into his palms, apologizing all the while and sounding like he’s on autopilot. “I’m so sorry, Eddie. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

Eddie climbs out of his bed and walks over to where Richie is on the floor, kneeling just in front of him and taking the Walkman out of his hands. He looks him directly in the eyes. “It’s okay, Rich. I don’t care about that.”

“I-I’ll buy you a new one, Eds, I promise -- ”

“Richie, baby, are you listening? I don’t care about the Walkman…” Eddie cannot say he doesn’t care about the tape - oh boy, does he care about that mixtape - but the Walkman is already forgotten as Richie bursts into hysterics, tears pouring from his eyes and rolling down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he cries, wrapping his arms around himself as he rocks back on his heels, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Eddie is starting to wonder if he’s even apologizing for the cassette player anymore or if it’s something else entirely, if he’s apologizing for the mixtape itself. He pulls Richie into his arms and shushes him gently, fearing his mother’s prying ears, shocked that she hasn’t been woken up by the sudden pandemonium in Eddie’s room. He rakes his nails gently along Richie’s scalp, soothing him.

“What are you sorry for?” He knows what Richie is sorry for, but he needs to hear him say it, has secretly needed an apology more than quietly uttered over the phone for months.

"Everything..." Richie croaks, and he feels the full weight of all he’s been through in the last five months come crashing down on him at full speed. He’s been harboring so much guilt inside of himself for so long - for making that mixtape and dropping it in Eddie’s locker with no explanation; for what he did at his birthday party; for the way he was acting there; for what he said to Eddie, to Beverly; for disappointing Bill; for causing the group to splinter and crack and break, because no matter how much the others say otherwise, he will always blame himself for the time they all spent apart. And Eddie, for the first time, is seeing what that guilt did to Richie, what all of those months alone shut up in his house with his mother and Jess without a single friend did to him, and Eddie realizes he doesn't need an apology. Not really. At least not right now - he just needs his friend - his best friend - to be okay. That’s the more important priority. Eddie, right in that moment, doesn't care about the tape either. He puts the Walkman down behind him so Richie can't see it and pulls Richie further into his arms.

"Shh, shh... It’s okay... Angel, it's okay... I forgive you."

Richie whimpers, “You shouldn’t...”

"But I do. And you can't stop me from forgiving you. So there," Eddie smiles, poking Richie once in the side. Richie giggles long and hard, breath fogging up his glasses. He removes them but instead of waiting for the smoke to clear and putting them back on, he just holds them in his hands and lets the world blur for a while. Eddie cradles Richie’s face in his hands and presses his lips to his forehead, whispering, “I hate seeing you sad...” And he’s more thinking out loud than anything, but Richie has never known anyone to care about how he feels at all. His mother doesn’t. Jess certainly doesn’t. He knows deep down that his friends do, but not the way Eddie does.

They lie back down for a little in Eddie’s bed, and he just runs his hands through Richie’s hair slowly, almost putting him to sleep. Richie still has his glasses off and his eyes closed and Eddie will occasionally lean closer and press gentle kisses to his eyelids. After he pulls away one time, Richie opens his eyes. “Eds?”

Eddie smiles softly and whispers back, “Yeah?”

“I - I have to apologize to Bev, Eddie... for what I said at the party — ” They both remember what he’s talking about. Eddie nods mutely. “I still don’t know why she got so upset... but it felt bigger than me...” Richie adds quietly, and Eddie nods again, saying nothing. He decides after a while that words would probably be best for Richie in this moment. They usually are.

“It’s not my place to tell you why it hurt her so much, Richie.”

Richie nods again before asking, “Eddie? Can you tell me one thing though?” Eddie tilts his head to the side, watching as Richie breathes in shakily and closes his eyes. “Do you think she can she forgive me?”

"Oh, Rich," Eddie breathes, and then he smiles as he leans forward to kiss the space between his eyebrows tenderly. "I'm pretty sure she already has."

 

* * *

 

Beverly Marsh is brave. Ask anyone, anyone at all who’s ever met her, and they’ll all tell you the same thing: her courage is unparalleled. Beverly does not often get scared - not anymore. The things that scare her the most about this world are long since dead and buried. She’s not glad for her father’s abuse, not ever, but it did give her an iron backbone and made her into someone who is fiercely and terribly brave. She’d never give up who she became for anything - Beverly loves herself. She loves her kindness and her generosity and her pride and the lack of fear she has. Beverly Marsh doesn’t let anything terrify her anymore.

But when the Losers’ Club all gather at her apartment to watch movies and wind down after a long day at the quarry, she finds her palms clammy and her cheeks warm. She’s been preparing herself to tell her friends about her father for what feels like years. She’s going to do it tonight, she promised herself that this morning before she left to meet them. Sometime today, Beverly Marsh was going to be braver than she’s needed to be in a long time. The long jump from the cliff at the quarry, biking down Up-Mile Hill at top speed, the biggest rollercoaster at the Derry Summer Fair, none of it scares Beverly. She has always taken everything life throws at her with open palms, letting the world cut her skin because she knows she can nurse herself back to health without anybody else’s help. Now that she’s safe when she locks the door at night, now that she has her boys back for good, she feels like she can take on the world with just her bare fists if it forced her to.

It’s not that being scared feels foreign to her - no, in fact, it’s the exact opposite. Fear comes over her like an old flame, all-consuming and powerful, the way she assumes love is like. She was once talking to Eddie and he told her that fear, hate and love all feel the same to him. There is no difference in the intense ways he feels those things. Beverly thinks he may have been onto something. She hasn’t hated anybody for a long time and she’s never been in love, but Beverly knows a thing or two about fear.

That’s why, when she looks around the room to find all of her friends watching _Pan’s Labyrinth_ with an intensity that she hasn’t seen in their group for a long time, she feels like maybe the fear she’s feeling, while valid, isn’t exactly warranted. These six boys are nothing like the man who instilled so much fear in her heart that it caused a ripple echoing out into her past and her future. She looks at herself at age 12 and she fears for that girl. She knows that she ended up alright in the end, that she survived, but she wishes surviving weren’t all she had to do. Her father left scars on her skin and deep within her soul that will never properly heal. They’ve faded over time with the help of the safety her aunt brings her and the love her friends give her, but they’ll never go away completely.

This is why she wants to tell them. She wants to show them how proud she is of her healing.

“Guys?” she whispers hoarsely, just a breath in the air. Nobody notices, and for a moment, she wishes she could be braver than she is. _You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known,_ Eddie told her once. She remembers it clearly, remembers telling him when she came back to school after the trial was over in the beginning of their freshman year of high school that her father had died. She told him and Bill then what she hasn’t been able to utter since: _I killed him._ Bill assured her that the courts were right, that it was self-defense, and to not think of it as a murder. Beverly Marsh was not a murderer; she was and always will be a defender of self. Beverly still has moments where she isn’t sure if he was right or not.

She clears her throat, telling herself that she is _brave_  because that’s what Eddie would tell her if she could speak. “Guys?”

They all turn to her and Bill grabs the remote from Richie to mute the television.

She’s been practicing what she’s wanted to say to her friends about what really happened to her father for years now. She’s gone through so many iterations of this speech that she feels like she’s drowning in possibility. But with Stanley and Bill looking so calm, Richie with his head in Eddie’s lap and his feet hanging over the back of the couch, and Mike and Ben curled up together on the floor with smiles on their faces, she thinks that maybe all her pre-prepared speeches aren’t necessary. She doesn’t need her words to be perfect if her environment already is.

She breathes out slowly, steeling herself by grabbing the long shag carpet below them and holding on tight. “I have to tell you something.”

They all nod, and for once, there’s silence. There’s no Richie and Eddie rambling, no Bill and Mike laughing, no Stanley and Ben chastising. Just the hum of the TV and her thoughts. Neither have ever seemed so loud before.

“I, uh… I’m gonna tell you guys about my dad.” She hears one of them gulp, but she doesn’t look up to see who. Probably Richie - the boy has been a bundle of nerves and constant touches ever since that fateful night at his birthday party. She remembers him saying that word, the word that will never be her name again. She’s long since forgiven him, but she thinks it’s time for him to know why.

“He was… a bad man. He, uh… He acted like I was his — property. He abused me,” she grits out, the words coming out of her mouth roughly, like they’re been shoved through a grate. She looks up at Bill and avoids everyone else’s liquid hot gazes. Bill has always been an island, a cool breeze, a solace at times when they all think they have none. He smiles at her encouragingly, the eye of the storm, and she feels that sense of comfort she always gets with Bill sweep over her. She smiles back shakily.

“But one day, I couldn’t take it anymore. All the… _bullshit._ So, out of what the police call self-defense, I… I defended myself against him. And he, uh… died.” She can’t bear to look at her friends in that moment, terrified that she’ll see plastered all over their faces what she screamed at herself for years: _Murderer. You’re a murderer, Beverly Marsh._ The truth is, though, that Alvin Marsh tried to kill Beverly a long time ago, and she was doing what she does best: protecting herself.

“And so, Auntie came from Portland and moved here so I wouldn’t have to leave what I knew. She got a new apartment on the other side of town, and…” She chances a look at the person she knows needs to hear this speech the most, but when she sees Richie absolutely devastated, she has to look back down at her clasped, shaking hands, unable to see his reaction to the final part of the story. “He called me Bevvy. That’s why — that’s why I — ”

Richie is trying desperately to speak. He’s Trashmouth, after all - words are his specialty. But Trashmouth is shrivelled inside him right now. He had moved to a seated position a few sentences into Beverly’s speech and he’s shamelessly clutching Eddie’s hand, trying to make sense of all of this. It’s not that it doesn’t make sense - it makes _too_ much sense. All the times Beverly flinched away from his touch when they were younger, all the times she would go catatonic if a book fell off a desk in class. It all makes sense now and he’s furious at himself that he didn’t see it before, back when he could’ve done something to stop it. His mouth is working around words that he never thought he’d have to say. But all that comes out is a weak and breathy, “Beverly…”

Never in his entire life did he think it was this bad for her and he shoved it in her face that it was. But here she is, still standing, still loving fiercely, still protective of herself and her world, still Beverly Marsh. And Beverly Marsh has always loved Richie Tozier. He releases Eddie’s clammy hand and scrambles up to go to her, but stops just before he reaches her. He crouches down and when Beverly’s shining eyes meet his, he lifts a hand slowly towards her, asking permission. And that’s all Beverly needs to launch herself at him, arms like a vice around his neck.

They sit there for a long time, clutching each other for dear life, rocking back and forth and silently crying into each other’s skin. Both of their shirts are soaked from both the sweat from earlier that day and tears, but they hold each other all the same, and slowly, they stitch back the remaining broken parts of themselves that had come undone over the past five months. The rest of the group lets them have a little time to themselves, but it’s Ben who breaks the barrier between the rest of the group and the two of them. He slowly walks over, kneels down behind Beverly and wraps his arms around both of them, resting his cheek against her spine. He can feel her trembling with the force of trying to hold back her tears and Ben whispers to her something that she’s been needing to hear for a long time:

“You’re safe, Beverly. You’re safe now.”

Once a sob rips through the quiet, tense air, they all spring into action, crowding around her and trying to get as close as possible. Their hands and bodies feel indistinguishable from one other’s, reaching out to Beverly like a lifeline. Richie has never felt more assimilated into the group as they all hold Beverly up, and he quietly realizes that this isn’t about him. It never was. Beverly knows that Richie would never do what her father did to her, and Richie trusts himself now more than ever to be of support to her. He hurt her. The night of his party, he hurt her in ways that he can never take back. But he never for even a moment wanted to, and that’s why he knows he’s much different than Beverly’s disgusting father.

“You’re so damn strong, Beverly…” Mike insists where his lips are pressed into her hair. Beverly’s eyebrows quirk several times as a slow smile blooms over her face. She clutches Richie tighter and he tightens his grip on her right back. It doesn’t feel constricting or claustrophobic - none of this does because she knows with just the smallest movement, she could send their leaning tower tumbling down. But she doesn’t. She holds on.

“The strongest girl I’ve ever known,” Stanley says, voice wrecked like he’s been holding back tears for far too long.

“I’m so pr-proud of you, Beverly,” Bill whispers against her forehead, lips catching on the ends of her wild hair, the hair that belongs to her now, the hair that her father has never touched, and her smile blooms full-force for what feels like the first time in years.

Beverly is certain that these six men will never truly know just how much they’ve changed her life just by being in it. They’ll never know the solace they were, the safe place to hide when she felt like the world was out to get her. They’ll never know the healing that being their friend without the expectation or ownership she had always associated with men as a whole did to her. Beverly was learning how to mend herself before her father had even died. They helped her more than they’ll ever realize. But she thinks that’s okay. They don’t need to know the magnitude of what their love did for her so long as they keep on loving her and keep on loving each other.


	6. Fall, 1992 (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the losers learn that, as it turns out, falling in love looks a whole lot simpler in the movies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is only as long as it is because _someone_ (gia) needed to write the kids watching rocky horror. things just kind of... escalated from there.
> 
> enjoy this absolute behemoth of a chapter.

When Eddie tells Richie his biggest fear, he has to do it at Richie’s house.  
  
“Are you _sure_ no one’s home?” Eddie asks for the fourth time, rechecking the lock on Richie’s door. Richie rolls his eyes fondly.  
  
“Yes, darling, I’m sure. Jess won’t be home until after dinner - she’s at someone from the team’s house - and mom’s at work.” Eddie sighs, sitting back down on the bed.  
  
“Alright…” He looks around aimlessly and Richie is momentarily grateful he had the foresight to hide the wine bottle Eddie gave him for his birthday back in March. Eddie smiles fleetingly at the controlled mess that only Richie Tozier could create before looking down at his shaky hands. Richie leans forward and takes them in his.  
  
“What’s got your goat, babe?” he asks playfully, but his voice drifts off into nothing when he notices the crease in between Eddie’s eyes, only present when he’s stressed out or upset about something. “Honey, really, what’s wrong? You can tell me.”  
  
Eddie takes a deep breath and nods, telling himself Richie is right. Richie wants to hear about his fears and trepidations; they’re dating now, they’re supposed to tell each other these things. He wants to tell someone, wants Richie’s brand of heroism when he says that everything is going to be okay. Eddie only ever believes those words from Richie and Bill. He needs to be told them about this, so he steels himself in the golden afternoon sun streaming through the sheer curtains in Richie’s room and looks at him.  
  
“I’m afraid to tell my mom about my sexuality,” he says, trying to say it without his voice shaking, but he doesn’t succeed, and it wobbles on the last word. Richie’s face is open, curious, but undemanding, and Eddie feels so safe with him, his best friend, that he’s able to say the words he’s only ever spoken round in circles in his head. “I’m afraid she’ll kick me out if I come out to her, or worse… She might send me away. Try to _fix_ me. She’s always been really homophobic, you know, lying to me about AIDS and shit, and I’m afraid if she finds out she’s got a son who’s, uh… like that… she’ll freak. It’s common, you know? It’s common for parents to do that. The world isn’t as tolerant as our nuclear group likes to pretend. I’m afraid she lied to me about AIDS because she guessed about me, about... I just…” Richie’s getting more and more heated as Eddie is talking. He’s angry, furious, at Sonia Kaspbrak for putting the fear of something so innate to Eddie in him. _No one deserves to be scared of their mother, least of all Eddie,_ he thinks. “I don’t know. I’m just scared,” Eddie says, utterly afraid and incredibly small, and all of Richie’s anger melts away entirely.  
  
“I know, darling. It’s okay. We’ll figure it out,” he says softly, squeezing Eddie’s hands where they’ve gone lax in his. Eddie tightens them again, remembering they’re being held, and looks at their joined fingers quizzically.  
  
“We will?”  
  
“Yeah, definitely. I’m not gonna let your mom send you anywhere I’m not going. You know me, Trashmouth Tozier would throw the most incredible hissy fit Derry’s ever seen.” Eddie smiles helplessly at his tone, sure and certain, even though he himself is scared and miserable. Richie unlinks one of their hands and reaches up to card his fingers through Eddie’s hair to get him to look up. “Ain’t nobody stealin’ my boy.” He says it in a cowboy Voice, but his tone is fond and soft. The Voice is a conscious effort on Richie’s part to get Eddie laugh, not the usual defense mechanism, and it works. Eddie falls over onto Richie’s comforter giggling. Richie’s glad he can use his Voices for a good reason, too.  
  
Richie lays down and curls himself around Eddie, his forehead resting against Eddie’s spine, a parenthesis, shielding him from the world. He wishes he could do more, wishes his humor and defenses were a real sword and shield. But maybe they can be each other’s armor, Richie thinks. Maybe they can fight the war together, battle by battle.  
  
“Hey,” Richie says quietly once Eddie’s laughter has quieted down. “You’re so brave. Did you know that?” Eddie smiles even though Richie can’t see it. He blushes and shakes his head. “No, honest. You’re like… like a superhero. You’re so strong, Eddie. So strong…”  
  
Eddie flips around and buries his face in Richie’s stomach to hide the flush on his cheeks and the tears that have sprung to his eyes from the words and the emotions running through him from finally getting out what he’s been terrified of since he was 12 years old. Richie wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist and rests his head against Eddie’s hipbone and breathes out evenly against his skin where his shirt has ridden up. The moment is quiet and lovely and Richie thumbs at the spaces between Eddie’s spine gently, riding the vertebrae with his finger up and down like he’s climbing mountains, clearing hurdles.  
  
“So brave…” Richie sighs. He kisses the skin there but it isn’t a sexually charged moment. It’s chaste and comforting and kind and Eddie has never felt more taken care of or at peace, even though he’d been panicking just moments ago. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly against Richie’s stomach. “That’s it, angel. You’re okay. No one’s gonna take you away from me.”  
  
Eddie believes him.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Eddie may or may not be _freaking the fuck out._ _  
_  
There’s a lot riding on tonight. This is a big deal for him and Richie. This is their first school dance as a couple. They’re also going to sneak Mike in through the back. It’s not a big deal. Really. Eddie’s got a complete handle on this.  
  
He is currently breathing rapidly as he gets ready at Beverly’s apartment, chest heaving, as she attempts to put a windsor knot in his tie. Okay, so he may have less of a handle on this than he thought.  
  
“Eddie! I can’t tie this with you heaving like a fish out of water!” Beverly accuses, tapping his chest lightly with the back of her hand. “Why are you so nervous?”  
  
“This is… This is my first real date with Richie,” Eddie relents, huffing.  
  
Beverly’s eyes go soft. “Dear, you’ve been on many things that could be considered ‘dates’ with Richie.”  
  
“I know!” Eddie yells, spooking himself more than he does Beverly - and obviously Bubba, who barks in surprise from the other room. Eddie grimaces his apology. “I know. I just. This is a big deal, right? I’m not… I’m not freaking out over nothing, am I?”  
  
“Well, honey, I love you, and you’re usually freaking out unnecessarily hard over something - but, yeah! This is a bit of a deal. It’s Homecoming, it’s the first event of the year. Maybe…” Beverly ponders. “Maybe we should do something to take your mind off of it.”  
  
“What did you have in mind?” Eddie asks, and Beverly smirks mischievously.  
  
“Oh, I have an idea.”  
  
So 150 slips of paper stuffed into Beverly’s purse, a named plan (Operation Kingpin; Richie is starting to infect Eddie’s way of thinking, he believes), and a panic attack (or four) from Eddie later, they arrive at Maggie Tozier’s front door. Eddie tries to take a deep breath, but he struggles, and instinctively reaches for his inhaler.  
  
“You’re gonna be fine, Kaspbrak. Richie’s gonna think you’re a knockout,” Beverly assures, patting Eddie on the back before leaning over and pressing on the doorbell herself. Eddie manages to calm his breathing on his own without the use of his inhaler. Maggie opens the door and smiles wide at the pair of them.  
  
“Beverly! You look gorgeous! And Eddie, my, don’t you look just too handsome for words?” she coos, and Eddie can tell by the clarity in her eyes that she’s sober. _Good,_ he thinks. _Richie deserves this night for himself._ “It’s good to see you both! Come in, please!”  
  
“Thank you for taking our photos, Mrs. Tozier,” Eddie responds, and Maggie scoffs kindly with a flip of her hand.  
  
“It’s not a big deal, please! I took my fair share of photography classes in college. Thought I was going to photograph models for a living. That didn’t work out though!” Maggie laughs shrilly and both children shift uncomfortably in the doorway. “And please, Eddie, I’ve told you for the last time to call me Maggie!”  
  
“Sorry, M-Maggie. It’s just habit, you know? My mom taught me -- ”  
  
“Well, Sonia is a fine lady, but she’s not here, is she?” Maggie laughs, leaning in conspiratorially. Eddie smiles briefly. No, she certainly is not.  
  
“Mags! Who was at the door!” Richie calls from within the house.  
  
“Come see for yourself, lazybones!” Maggie calls, walking further into the house and shooting Eddie and Beverly a wink, as if neither of them know about the neglect that goes on under this roof, as if she hadn’t just overheard Eddie come out to them all a month ago.  
  
“Hold onto your cufflinks, folks. Richie Tozier is in town,” Richie announces from behind the wall. “Now! Now!” he whispers harshly. _Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy_ by Queen begins playing from the stereo that someone (Bill?) puts out into the foyer. It starts about 25 seconds in and Richie looks vaguely annoyed when he steps out, but even with his frustrated pout, Eddie takes an involuntary staggering step backwards in shock. Richie catwalks into the room to the beat of the music drifting from the speakers dressed in a blue, shiny, floral suit with a black button-down underneath it and a tie to match. His slacks flare out at the bottom and his hair is slicked up in a quiff that he and Bill must’ve spent ages on. He’s, in a word, jaw-dropping. Eddie doesn’t care one bit that he’s going to pale in comparison in his suit recycled from Stanley’s bar mitzvah. He is glad, however, that he and Beverly decided on a pink and red floral button down shirt underneath his plain black suit and tie. He’s going to match with Richie, at least - not enough to make it obvious that they’re together, but enough that they’ll know, and the thought of that sends his heart racing.  
  
And _wow,_ he thinks, looking at him. He truly is a vision. And then he chokes on his spit when he gets a good look at Richie’s face. Eddie doesn’t know how he could’ve missed it. Richie’s cheeks are artfully covered in gold and blue glitter and his lips are a sinful color of red. Eddie is glad he’s holding Beverly’s hand because his knees go weak at the sight and they buckle under him. Beverly laughs, hand tightening, holding him up.  
  
Richie’s carefree smile morphs into a smirk. “Hey, stud.”  
  
Eddie begins sputtering. “You, uh -- I… Y-You look…”  
  
“Yeah? Got any descriptive words to add to that sentence, Eddie Spaghetti?” Richie taunts.  
  
“Don’t call me that!” Eddie squeals, and Richie’s grin is wide and elastic.  
  
“Hey! My baby’s back!” he calls, arms out. “Come give your lover boy a hug.”  
  
“You’ll get me all glittered and then I’ll never hear the end of it from anybody,” Eddie says, crossing his arms over his chest as Richie walks closer, arms still splayed wide.  
  
“Aw, c’mon, babe, everyone has known you’ve been mine for years anyway,” Richie says, brushing him off and pulling him into a crushing hug. “You look gorgeous,” he murmurs into Eddie’s ear. “Just beautiful.” And Eddie smiles, tucking his face into Richie’s neck.  
  
“You do, too, Richie,” Eddie whispers.  
  
_Click._

“First of the night!” Mike calls out as the photo comes out of the polaroid camera and he waves it around. “Now, c’mon, Maggie promised us she’d take some photos and Richie already swore on his grave that he’d get on the player piano in the living room somehow and pose like a flapper with Eddie playing the piano. The night is young, so,” he beckons.  
  
“You promised what?” Eddie squeaks, pulling back in Richie’s embrace to look him in the eye, and Richie laughs.   
  
“Beverly said we’d have to all kiss her cheeks at once somehow and we’re going to figure that out, too,” Mike says, grabbing the stereo and walking away with it.   
  
“Hey! Mikey!” Richie pipes, following Mike with the speaker. “I am personally affronted you would take away my background music! That is mine and Eddie’s theme song, alright?”   
  
“Is not!” Eddie cries, following them all into the living room, and Beverly just shakes her head at them.   
  
“Losers.”   
  
  
“This is a horrible plan!” Eddie hisses, his arms wound tightly around himself as he stands in the back of the high school where he can hear music pouring from inside the school; the homecoming dance is already in full swing and it’s only just begun. He isn’t entirely sure if he’s actually cold (though it is quite chilly for September) or if he’s just anxious about what they’re doing. Mike, Beverly, and Richie are with him, and his eyes dart all around as Beverly crouches down in front of one of the doors to the gymnasium, eye-level with the door handle as she wiggles the straightened end of a bobby pin into it, attempting to pick the lock. Her tights are already ripped at the knees and stained from the grass, but she is way more concerned with sneaking Mike into this dance than she is with looking presentable. Usually, Eddie’s the first one to join Beverly and Richie in their hijinks, but he’s put a lot of pressure on himself to make tonight great and he doesn’t want to screw it up.   
  
“Oh, it’s gonna be fine, Eddie,” Mike insists in a voice that the younger boy usually finds calming, but with his anxiety already reaching the cosmos, the lack of concern in his voice is downright irritating, to say the least. “Bev knows what she’s doing.”   
  
“I’m not worried about Beverly’s lock-picking skills!” Eddie whispers so shrilly it almost sounds like white noise. “If we get caught back here, we’re going to be in detention for the rest of our lives!”   
  
“Aw, Eds - live a little, doll,” Richie chuckles, winding his arm around the boy’s waist and pulling him to his side, but he frowns when he notices just how rapidly Eddie is sucking in his breath, like he is struggling to get enough air. “Hey, Eds...”   
  
“Richie, if my mom finds out about this, she’ll never let me see you guys again!”   
  
Richie’s arm tightens around him and he turns sharply back towards the way they came, pulling Eddie with him as he calls back over his shoulder, “Right - see ya, Bev! Bye, Mike! Good fuckin’ luck -- !” Beverly pops up from where she is kneeling to latch onto the collar of Richie’s suit jacket, and she drags him back to the door.   
  
“Where do you think you’re going, mister? This was all your idea, so if I go down, you’re coming with me…” she decides, jabbing Richie in the chest with her finger before turning to Eddie, her demeanor noticeably softening when she takes in the sight of the panicking boy. “You can go find the other boys inside if you want, Eds, but I’m holding Trashmouth here hostage.” Eddie turns into Richie’s side with a shake of his head, a silent but firm decision to remain where he is, and Beverly pats him on the arm before returning her attention once more to the door.   
  
It only takes two more jerks of the bobby pin before Beverly hears that tell-tale click, and then she’s smirking as she pushes the door open, waving the boys inside ahead of her. “After you, gentlemen…” Eddie all but runs inside, Richie close at his heels, and he presses his hand to the small of Eddie’s back as he takes a hit from his inhaler that he procures from his pocket, a shaking hand running through his hair. Beverly and Mike are right behind them, each with looks of concern.   
  
“Eddie, man, you good?” Mike asks, worry all over his face, and Beverly places her hand on Eddie’s shoulder just as Bill, Stanley, and Ben come running up to them, each with a grin on their face.   
  
“You guys did it!” Ben has to shout to be heard over the music blaring on the speakers. Bill is the first of the newcomers to realize something is wrong.   
  
“Wh-Wh-What happened to Eddie?” he doesn’t raise his voice, but he doesn’t need to as Eddie looks up with half a smile, still looking partially out of breath.   
  
“Oh, nothing - just a good ol’ freak out. Nothing abnormal,” he grins sardonically. “But I feel better now that we’re inside.”      
  
“You’re sure you’re alright, Eds?” Richie asks guiltily, feeling a large amount of responsibility for what had just happened, but Eddie nods at him reassuringly, squeezing his hand.   
  
“You didn’t make me do anything, Rich. I stayed out there because I wanted to. Now, c’mon, I want some punch,” Eddie declares, dragging Richie toward the food table by the cufflink. Ben looks at Beverly questionably.   
  
“Is anybody gonna tell him…?”   
  
“Oh, that everybody spikes the punch? We’ll let Tozier deal with that. He seems to have his hands full anyway,” Beverly comments flippantly, glancing in the direction of Eddie who is already pouring a glass of the dubious red drink while Richie looks on worriedly. “Now, come on, Hanlon, I got you into the mess, I deserve at least one dance, no?”   
  
Mike smiles. “Yeah, let’s go show off that beautiful dress.” Beverly shines like the sun at the comment on the dress she made herself, different colors and designs all throughout due to the multiple swatches of fabric she used to create it.   
  
“Well, if you insist,” she huffs, still smiling, and he twirls her towards the dance floor. Ben can hear their laughter from his place by Bill and Stan and he smiles at the sound. Any time his friends are happy, Ben is happy.   
  
The opening bass riff to _Tramp_ by Salt ‘N Pepa comes through the speakers and Eddie jumps excitedly to the beat after he’s downed his second consecutive cup of punch, much to Richie’s horror. Richie looks at the DJ confusedly, a freshman he that knows to be a boy who smokes a lot of illegal substances that Richie prefers to stay away from after his flirtation with theidea of drugs over the spring. The DJ’s eyes look alight with glee as children start dancing excitedly. Teachers and chaperones alike gape at each other with the same expression Richie is now giving Eddie.   
  
“C’mon, Richie! Let’s dance!”   
  
“To _Tramp_ by Salt ‘N Pepa?” Richie questions with a smile despite his pinched eyebrows.   
  
“It’s our song!” Eddie cheers, dragging him onto the floor.   
  
“Wow, Eds, that punch really hit you hard, didn’t it? Have you ever even heard this song?”   
  
“I don’t need to considering I know it’s called _Tramp._ That’s you!”   
  
“Got off on a good one, Spaghetti Man!” Richie laughs raucously as they enter the dance floor. Eddie is thrashing and spinning around the outskirts of the floor, lit up by colored lights.   
  
Richie laughs hard at the chorus of the song because Eddie is pointing to him every time the girls of Salt ‘N Pepa yell out _tramp!_ Richie wonders if it’s truly as criminal as the lawmakers say to be this utterly in love with someone. He doesn’t think it can be, having nothing but chastity and purity coloring the edges of his vision, making the colored lights blur a bit until only Eddie remains, smile honest and proud and larger than life. Richie has been called that before, sometimes by Eddie himself. Larger than life. He’s pretty sure if he is as big and expansive as people claim, Eddie must make him even bigger, because with the rapid swelling of his heart that makes him feel as if it will swallow him whole, it only makes sense that Eddie has to have some stake in the blame.   
  
Richie felt he was small and invisible before Eddie. He made up for it by being as unforgettable as possible, screaming until his throat was raw from it just to be heard. Even still, he was forgotten by his own family. But never by his friends. Never by the boy who took gasping breaths of air like he was stealing from the atmosphere but never did so when laughing at Richie. Never by the boy who held Richie’s hand at only six years old when his father packed his bags and let him kick dirt, even though it made Eddie dizzy with nerves. Never by the boy who has so many fears and anxieties, but pushes them all aside whenever his friends are in need. Never by the boy who shakes his fists in Richie’s face and spits enough curses to keep up with even Richie himself, but who softens at every edge the moment he sees Georgie Denbrough smile. Never by the boy who smiles at him every time Richie needs it. Never by the boy who is strong on his own without the help of inhalers and placebo medications. Never by the boy who always makes Richie feel bigger than his own skin. Never by the boy with stars in his eyes and moonlight in his heart. Never by the boy who shares his light with Richie.   
  
Richie looks at him fondly while Eddie pokes him in the chest while screaming, “I have!” when Salt ‘N Pepa sings _have you ever met a dude who’s stupid and rude?_ and is positively certain that there’s nothing bad about loving Eddie Kaspbrak.   
  
Eddie continues thrashing around until the music cuts out entirely and a teacher is at the microphone, looking harried. Everyone lets out a collective groan of disapproval at the interruption.   
  
“I’m sorry, kids, for that incredibly inappropriate song,” the teacher apologizes, glaring at the freshman who is giggling as he’s carted off by another chaperone. “I assure you, we’ll find someone more apt for the job of disc-jockeying in a few minutes. In the meantime, go enjoy the wonderful food we have set up!”   
  
Eddie and Richie look at each other and then burst out laughing. Richie presses his hand into Eddie’s spine, higher than he would’ve if they were safe from prying eyes, and guides him off the dance floor. “C’mon, Eds, let’s go eat.”   
  
“But I wanna keep dancing!” Eddie whines, letting himself be maneuvered by Richie anyway.   
  
“Do you hear any music, my love?” Eddie rolls his eyes and crosses his arms with a huff.   
  
“The music is _inside us,_ Richie. Isn’t that what you’re always saying?” Richie laughs loudly.   
  
“It is, but maybe not smart to dance to said music until you’ve sobered up a bit.” Eddie sighs, but walks over to the food table, picking up a plate and shoving two helpings of chicken onto his plate. Richie raises his eyebrows in shock.   
  
“And where’s all that chicken supposed to go exactly?” Eddie glares at him, patting his belly with his free hand.   
  
“My stomach.”   
  
“Don’t you mean tummy?” Eddie somehow manages to intensify his glare.   
  
“In fact, I don’t.” Eddie turns on his heel and walks over to their table. Richie heaves a sigh, a smile on his face, and grabs some silverware for Eddie before following him.   
  
Beverly walks over to where Eddie and Richie are eating at their table. Eddie seems to be voraciously enjoying his food, scarfing it down quickly, and Richie looks up at Beverly helplessly.   
  
“Help,” he says plainly. “He had two cups of punch and now he won’t stop eating chicken.”   
  
“Beverly! My love!” Eddie cries when he sees Beverly, who is trying to hold back her laughter and not doing a great job. “Have you tried the chicken yet? You just have to try the chicken, come, sit with me and eat your chicken.”   
  
“Sure, Eds, I’ll eat some chicken,” she says, sitting down. She leans into Eddie’s side and whispers conspiratorially, “Are you all good for Operation Kingpin?”   
  
Eddie sits up ramrod straight and looks over slowly. “Oh, I-I forgot. I’ll sober up,” he says, shaking himself off. “I didn’t know the punch would be so… fun.”   
  
Beverly laughs. “Yeah, the seniors always smuggle in alcohol and dump it all in the punch. It’s like a -- ” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. _Eddie probably wouldn’t appreciate the term cesspool, Bev,_ she admonishes internally. “It’s a rite of passage, I guess. Very alcoholic.”   
  
Eddie nods. “I can tell,” he says, dazed, and leans his head on Richie’s shoulder. They make eye contact. “Hey, babe? You got any tips on how to get sober quick?”   
  
Richie smiles down at him, carding his fingers through Eddie’s hair quickly. “Oh, honey. Yeah, I’ll go get you some water. Let’s hope they didn’t spike that.” Eddie wrinkles his nose at the thought. “Bevs, you good to stay with him for a bit? I’m gonna get some bread in him, it’ll soak up some of the alcohol in his system.” Beverly nods.   
  
“Yeah, I’ll stay here with the drunk punk.” Eddie giggles.   
  
“Drunk punk. Punk drunk. Punch drunk. This would be less funny if I were sober, wouldn’t it?” Richie and Beverly both laugh.   
  
“Definitely,” Richie says, looking around quickly before leaning down to press a lightning fast kiss to the crown of Eddie’s head and walking over to the food table. Eddie smiles at his plate before turning to Beverly. He shakes his head, trying to clear his mind, and looks at her, eyes much less clouded now.   
  
“Game plan?” he asks her, smile slightly wobbly.   
  
“Okay, here’s what we’ll do - I’m gonna stuff the ballot box while you distract Mr. Proust.”   
  
Eddie nods. “And how am I supposed to distract a teacher I don’t have?”   
  
Beverly shrugs. “He’s the geometry teacher for the juniors. Tell him you’re interested in proofs but you don’t understand the merit of them as a mathematical substitute for something more substantial. That should get the ball rolling.” Eddie nods a bit dumbly. The words are mostly nonsense to him, but to Beverly and Richie, they’re an everyday occurrence in school. The two of them are incredibly intelligent and spend a lot of their time together studying or discussing academia. Eddie hangs out with his best friends often, so it's not as if the words are completely lost on him. And it’s not as if they’re not proud of being smart; they don’t shove it in their friends’ faces. They just use it to their advantage when they need it. Grades, sucking up to teachers, and, apparently to Eddie, stuffing ballot boxes at Homecoming Dances.   
  
“Got it.”   
  
“Also, be ready to distract Richie in case he -- ”   
  
“What about Richie?” The boy in question says from behind them, the apples of his cheeks shining in the bright, spinning lights as he walks over to them while balancing a bowl of chips and two cups of water in his hands. Beverly gets up, hurrying over to him.   
  
“Here, Rich, let me grab some of this.”   
  
“Oh, thanks, Bev,” he says, taking his seat and turning to Eddie. “Here you go, sweetheart, eat this and drink up. We can’t have you all wobbly when they play our song!”   
  
“They’re gonna play _Tramp_ by Salt ‘N Pepa again?” Eddie inquires with a raise of an eyebrow and Richie laughs loudly.   
  
“Just eat your chips, darlin’. Either that or say Salt ‘N Pepa again. Slower this time, you know how I love it when you don’t enunciate,” Richie leers playfully. Eddie scoffs and looks away primly. He pops two chips in his mouth, then takes a sip of water.   
  
“Mmm! Much better, I’m feeling more sober already! Let’s go dance,” Eddie says, pulling Richie up towards the dance floor, knowing they don’t have much time to themselves before Eddie needs to enact the plan. He looks over to Beverly who mouths _9 o’clock._ Eddie nods a bit before turning the rest of his attention to Richie. “C’mon, they’re playing a fast one! Let’s see those fly moves, mister.”   
  
“You sure you’re not still drunk?” Richie questions, a watchful eye on him. Eddie nods, a beaming smile on his face.   
  
“Positive! Let’s dance, hon, come on!” Eddie looks to the large clock in the gymnasium that reads 8:20. They have 40 minutes to dance before Eddie needs to distract the person manning the ballot booth.   
  
Richie and Eddie are dancing casually within the group when the song fades out and the piano of _Total Eclipse Of the Heart_ comes through the speakers. Richie, Eddie and Beverly’s hearts all stop collectively as their eyes widen. Everyone begins to pair off, smiling into each other’s eyes, blissfully unaware of the utter meltdown Richie and Eddie are having while Beverly watches from the sidelines, horrified as they simply come together and start dancing as if nothing had happened six months ago. Beverly knows they never talked about the mixtape. She knows by the vacant look in Richie’s eyes as he looks off to the side that they simply went about their lives, trying to forget about it.   
  
_Turn around_ _  
_ _Every now and then_ _  
_ _I get a little bit nervous_ _  
_ _That the best of all the years have gone by_ _  
_   
Beverly wants to run to them, tell them to talk, just say anything to each other. But then the chorus comes through, Richie gives a big, great heaving sigh and grabs Eddie by the sleeve, dragging him toward the double doors of the auditorium. Beverly smiles wanly as he stomps off, but she knows better than anyone that this conversation has the capability of going quite poorly if neither of them can fucking communicate.   
  
_And I need you now tonight_ _  
_ _And I need you more than ever_ _  
_ _And if you only hold me tight_ _  
_ _We'll be holding on forever_ _  
_   
They burst through the doors and Eddie waits until they slam shut to turn to Richie. He looks almost frightened, like he’s afraid Richie will yell at him, and that alone has Richie speechless. He flounders for a moment, his temporary confidence left entirely behind in the other room. Eddie sighs and takes the opportunity to speak, but his voice is meek when he does.   
  
“Why did you make me that mixtape?” Trashmouth bubbles to the surface. Which mixtape, Eds, c’mon, be more specific is waiting on his tongue, but he squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his fists, willing himself to ask the question he’s been terrified to since April.   
  
“Why didn’t you say anything after I made you that mixtape?” Richie’s voice is raw, tender, as vulnerable as Eddie’s ever heard it, and the silence afterwards is deafening. They hear Bonnie Tyler sing, muffled through the thick wooden doors. _I don’t know what to do, I’m always in the dark, we’re living in a powder keg and giving off sparks._ Richie is unable to explain himself without giving too much of himself away, so instead, he throws it back on Eddie. The question had to be asked at some point, Richie reasons. Why not now?   
  
Eddie knows he should answer, knows he should put aside his pride and his embarrassment and answer this bleeding-heart boy in front of him, but Eddie Kaspbrak was raised by his mother, and if he is anything, it’s stubborn.   
  
“What was I supposed to say?” It could’ve been callous, almost cruel, in the way it came out if not for Eddie’s harsh whisper, pleading eyes and crumbled posture. They’re both so desperate for answers, but neither are willing to give them up first, both too scared to drown in a sea of uncertainty and potential loss of the beautiful thing they’ve so tentatively created to do so.   
  
“Anything, Eddie,” Richie says, his volume matching Eddie’s now. Eddie has a sudden pang of resentment for his name, misses every nickname Richie has ever given him, would prefer any of them over the pained, broken way Richie says his name in that moment. “ _Anything._ I was waiting.”   
  
“So was I, Rich,” Eddie sneers. “I waited for any communication that you actually wanted to talk to me. Instead, Beverly had to painstakingly translate your stupid French song while we sobbed in my bedroom. You literally told me how you felt in a foreign language, Richie. How was I supposed to know you wanted to talk to me in English?”   
  
Richie stares at him, a fiery look in his eyes despite how shiny they are from unshed tears. He translated it, Richie is thinking on an incessant loop. He translated it. He cares. “How was I supposed to know you even wanted to talk? I was giving you space!”   
  
“I never _asked_ for space, Richie!” Eddie cries, throwing his arms up in the air. “I wanted you as close to me as I could get you, as long as you were apologizing.”   
  
“I… I didn’t know…” Richie stammers, looking away first. He hates confrontation like this. Squabbles? He can deal with squabbles; he thrives off of squabbles. But fights? Real fights like this? This feels like the end of things for Richie. So he shuts his eyes, hunches his shoulders and hangs his head in defeat. “If you’re gonna break up with me, do it quick please. I’ll get out of your hair, I’ll leave you all alone, whatever you want. Just please. Please…”   
  
Eddie takes a few seconds to change gears, but once he realizes Richie thinks this fight means that the two of them are over, he quickly takes two steps towards him. “Oh. Oh, Richie, no.” His hands are fluttering around Richie quickly, unsure if the boy wants to be touched or not, but then Richie grabs onto Eddie’s forearms like a lifeline, and Eddie grabs his back soundly. Richie looks up into Eddie’s eyes and they’re so sad, broken-hearted at what he thinks is coming. _I really fucked up this time, didn’t I?_ Eddie thinks despondently. “No, Richie, I don’t want to break up with you, and I’d never want you to not be a part of the group. You’re my boy. We have fights. We’re literally constantly fighting; it’s our thing.” He tries to chuckle, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.   
  
“Not like this…” Richie says miserably, voice harsh and desperate.   
  
“Maybe not. But they’re part of being in a healthy relationship, I hear, to get through the other side of them. With healthy communication,” he stresses with a grin. Richie gives him a crooked smile back.   
  
“Maybe I’m not so good at that part…”   
  
“Maybe not. But I’m not either. We can work on it together, yeah?” Eddie searches, ducking his head to look into Richie’s eyes. Richie sniffs and smiles his true, amiable smile.   
  
“Yeah.” Eddie hears the song begin to fade out from within the gymnasium and smiles as he slowly slides his arms around Richie’s shoulders and pulls him into a hug.   
  
_Turn around, bright eyes…_ _  
_   
Eddie sighs, the fact that they still haven’t had their questions answered niggling in the back of his skull. “Can - Can we talk about the tape now?” he asks softly into Richie’s hair, playing with the tips of it, knowing he’s going to come back covered in glitter and not caring at all.   
  
Richie sighs, burying his face into Eddie’s neck. “I’m scared,” he mutters, muffled by the skin of Eddie’s throat, but Eddie still feels the words vibrate throughout him regardless.   
  
“Of what? I already promised we’re not going to break up, baby. It’s okay. We can discuss this like… like adults, maybe. Like people we’d be proud to be.” Richie smiles against Eddie’s neck and he feels it against his own skin.   
  
“Proud?” Richie asks tentatively, pulling back an inch. He looks disheveled, makeup in a bit of a kaleidoscopic disarray, but Eddie still thinks he looks heart-stoppingly gorgeous anyway.   
  
“Yeah, ‘Chee.” _‘Chee._ Eddie has only called him that a handful of times since that night in the hospital. It fills Richie to the brim with light and gets him a bit weak in the knees. With all the pet names Eddie is whipping out, he’s not certain he’ll be able to stand without assistance for the rest of the time Eddie will have him. “I’m gonna be proud of you regardless, but I really… I need to know what that tape was about, I really do.” Eddie’s voice is insistent and a little pleading, and Richie hears the note of desperation in there, like he spent all those months wondering what Richie was thinking just as hard as Richie was thinking about what Eddie was. It makes him want to give him everything he’s asking for.   
  
“I…” Richie tries, looking down at his converse. “I just wanted you to know how I felt.”   
  
“And you didn’t tell me because you were afraid I didn’t want you to?” Richie nods slowly. “Why didn’t you try a letter, dear? Says more.”   
  
Richie shakes his head. “Says less. I fuck up my words. I fuck up… everything,” he says self-deprecatingly. Eddie wants to jump in, tell him that isn’t even close to the truth, but Richie is barrelling on. “And I couldn’t fuck up that.”   
  
“Why not?” Richie shrugs so deeply, his shoulder hits his ear.   
  
“Too important.” Eddie smiles.   
  
“Why didn’t you tell me why you picked each song? You always do - on every mix, you give a little descriptor. You didn’t… You didn’t record an intro. You didn’t even name it. It made me feel like you didn’t… care,” Eddie says, trying not to sound whiny or cloying. Richie grabs his hands and pulls him close to him, so Eddie’s toes are overlapping his in his dress shoes.   
  
“I very much care. I just knew anything I said would give too much away,” Richie says vaguely, looking straight into Eddie’s eyes, boring into him. Eddie cocks his head.   
  
“Give too much of what away?” Eddie questions, hands beginning to shake.   
  
“How I feel,” Richie whispers. The silence stretches on but neither of them are paying attention to what song has come on next and Eddie doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the time. This is the most important thing on earth right now.   
  
“About…?”   
  
“You,” Richie says, looking around quickly and then touching his forehead to Eddie’s lightly when he sees that the hallway is deserted.   
  
“And how do you feel about me?” Eddie asks, entirely breathless, legs feeling like jello.   
  
“Strongly,” Richie smirks, brushing their noses together. Eddie sighs, put out.   
  
“You’re not gonna give me anything more than that?” he demands, but he doesn’t pull away.   
  
“I…” Richie says, voice light as air, and Eddie is sure he wouldn’t have even heard him if he weren’t half an inch away from his mouth right now. Richie brings his face even closer to Eddie’s, eyes half-lidded, but Eddie’s are wide open, searching Richie’s face for any sign of what he could mean. “I like you,” he whispers simply.   
  
“I gathered,” Eddie deadpans. “We’re boyfriends.”   
  
“We are?” Richie asks, entirely breathless. He’s been worrying over that question for months now, and Eddie had answered it so flippantly. As if it was always true.   
  
“Of course we are. We have been since you kissed me in the diner. Now, are you gonna kiss me again or not?”   
  
“Demanding, Eds. I like it.” Richie’s smile turns wolfish and Eddie can’t move, can barely even breathe, as their lips brush together lightly. It feels like the first time they’ve ever been this close.   
  
“Then do something about it,” Eddie whispers. Both their eyes close, their lips touching so softly and slowly, it feels like it’s going in slow-motion. Suddenly, the door handle jiggles and the doors creak open. Richie and Eddie spring apart, Eddie now breathing harder than he feels like he ever has before, as their Phys. Ed. teacher appears in the doorway. He raises an eyebrow at them.   
  
“You boys alright? No fights?” They both smile and shake their heads.   
  
“No fights here, Mr. MacNamara,” Eddie says dutifully as Richie swings an arm around Eddie’s neck.   
  
“Yeah, Eds here just got a little overwhelmed and needed to cool off. We’ll be inside in a sec, alrighty?” Mr. MacNamara nods slowly, eyeing them as he walks back inside, propping the doors open as he does.   
  
Eddie lets out a harsh sigh, shoving Richie off of him. “Get off of me, I’m allergic to glitter.”   
  
Richie leans in close as he goes to pass him, the cologne he had put on earlier that evening duller now after how much he’s been sweating. He smells musky and spicy and a bit floral due to his lavender shampoo. It’s a confusing mixture, but Eddie is intoxicated and finds himself leaning into Richie’s space anyway. “You weren’t a minute ago.”   
  
And he passes Eddie completely, hips swaying as he goes, looking over his shoulder and tossing Eddie a quick wink before entering the gym. Eddie feels his knees buckle.   
  
_“Shit.”_ _  
_   
  
Eddie’s starting to get a bit nervous when the clock hits 9:00 P.M. and Beverly is still dancing with Ben, laughing and talking. He figures it’s time to get the ball rolling when Stanley comes over and asks Richie to dance, bowing at their feet. They both laugh and when Eddie looks back up, Beverly is gone. He smiles.   
  
“But of course, Sir Uris, you may have my court jester’s hand,” Eddie says, backing up and letting Stanley take his place. Richie looks affronted when he looks at Eddie.   
  
“Court jester!” Richie cries. “Surely I’m the king!”   
  
“Only to me, Richie,” he smiles.   
  
Richie smiles back, and Eddie is sure he rivals the sun itself. “I’ll take it.”   
  
Eddie distracts the teacher manning the booth to perfection and Phase One of Operation Kingpin goes swimmingly. Eddie asks him about the merit of proofs, as Beverly suggested, and he goes on and on about them for ten excruciating minutes while Beverly removes some of the ballots (“Not all, Eddie! That’d be suspicious!” “I feel like you know too much about how to defraud a ballot.”) and stuffs 150 new ones with the same name on them into the box.   
  
They’re about twenty minutes out from the announcement of Homecoming King and Queen and Eddie is jittery. Maybe this was a bad idea. What if they get caught? What if it’s noticeable? What if something else goes wrong? It’s a Derry Central High School function, something is bound to go wrong.   
  
He and Richie are dancing to _Just Can’t Get Enough_ by Depeche Mode and Richie is teasing him, using Voices while he croons _all the things you do to me and everything you said._ He’s really pulling out all the stops to get Eddie out of his head, but Eddie is shifty, barely making eye contact. Suddenly, Richie sighs sharply and grabs his arm, pulling him out into the hallway.   
  
“Okay. Out with it. What’s got you so nervous, doll? Is it dancing with me? Is it my slick moves?” Richie says in his Danny Zuko Voice, striking a pose. Eddie huffs out a laugh.   
  
“No, it’s not that.”   
  
“Is it… are you nervous someone’s gonna notice you’re mostly dancing with me? I know we went together, but you can dance with Bev, I won’t mi--”   
  
“God, no. No, babe,” Eddie assures, jumping towards Richie and grabbing his arm. “It’s not that either. Not at all. No one we don’t care about has been paying any attention to us tonight.”   
  
Richie smiles sweetly, but it fades. “Then what is it? You’re not having… second thoughts… are you? About what you said? About… us?” He suddenly looks small and scared, and, oh. Eddie suddenly realizes how much his anxiety has been affecting Richie, how deeply Richie is affected by his and the rest of the group’s feelings. His boy’s emotions run strong and deep and sure, but he is insecure and scared just like Eddie.   
  
“Oh. Oh, Richie, no. No, I’ve wanted to be with you for a long time. Tonight is a dream come true, honestly. You look… You look absolutely incredible and I’m proud to stand next to you, even if I can’t hold your hand.” Richie’s smile returns, growing by the second. “I’ve just been nervous all night. Not because of the fight, or. _Total Eclipse. of the Heart,_ honest. Maybe residually from getting Mike into the school...” Richie goes to cut in, but Eddie holds up his hand. “Which, for the last time, my staying there was not your doing. I stayed there to support Mike and Bev.”   
  
Richie gasps, covering his chest with a limp hand, putting on a Southern Belle Voice. “And not me? My stars, my boyfriend is so -- ”   
  
“Alright, alright,” Eddie laughs, crowding him to the wall, sliding his arms around Richie’s neck. It’s comforting and as familiar as all the times Eddie’s hugged him before. “I’m so sorry I made you feel nervous.”   
  
“I’m sorry you felt nervous,” Richie replies.   
  
“Well, good. Now, kiss me,” Eddie demands. Richie’s eyes flick down to Eddie’s lips and then he looks around the empty hallway, remembering how they were interrupted earlier by Mr. MacNamara.   
  
“C’mon,” Richie says, pulling Eddie down the corridor. “I have an idea.”   
  
Richie pulls Eddie into the boy’s bathroom by the cafeteria and pushes him up against the door tenderly once they’ve made it inside. He leans in slowly, a soft smile on his face, and Eddie can’t help but mirror it.   
  
“Hi,” Richie whispers, centimeters from Eddie’s lips. Eddie’s smile grows, and he winds his arms around Richie’s neck once more, going up on his toes so Richie doesn’t have to crane his neck.   
  
“Hi,” Eddie responds, and pulls him in for a sweet, gentle kiss. It has Eddie’s mind swimming, light and airy, high above them and soaring with joy. Richie sighs into his mouth and Eddie hopes that he feels the same way, head cottony and noises drowned out.   
  
It always felt this way for Eddie when he was close to Richie; sitting on the couch watching a movie with the group and Richie would flop down next to him, throwing a casual arm around his shoulders. Eddie would feel like he was floating. But now, he gets to touch, taste, feel Richie underneath his hands, and it’s almost sensory overload for Eddie. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to not feel like a ghost, like a spectre haunting his own body. He’s always felt that way, like he wasn’t real, but standing with Richie, kissing his mouth, Richie’s hand closed around his tie to hold him close and the other gripping onto his lapel, he feels imaginary. Like none of this could possibly be real.   
  
Eddie breaks the kiss with a gasp, his anxiety peaking again. His mind falls back down on him and slams back into place with the thought, _this was never real and he will leave you._ Eddie immediately begins to cry.   
  
“No, no, baby, what’s wrong?” Richie frets, hands fluttering around Eddie’s cheeks, not solidly touching him. _Maybe he’s trying to and he’s going right through me,_ Eddie thinks wildly. “Are you anxious again? Was it too fast? I’m so sorry.”   
  
“I’m not real, this isn’t real, you’re leaving,” Eddie gasps, reaching for the inhaler in his pocket, muscle memory from a life he’s not sure if he leads anymore.   
  
“Darling, I’m not leaving. I’ll stay here all night if I have to.”   
  
“But we have to…” Eddie sucks in a greedy breath from his inhaler. “We have to get back.”   
  
“No, we don’t. We’re going to stay right here until you feel better, okay? You’re safe here with me. Do you wanna sit down?” Eddie looks around and suddenly realizes he’s in a bathroom.   
  
“We have to get out of here, there’s so many germs, they never clean these rooms the way they should,” Eddie rushes, and Richie murmurs, okay, alright, before leading him by the lower back out of the room. Eddie doesn’t even feel the touch, it doesn’t register, but he knows Richie is touching him. He must be. “Richie, can you…” Eddie starts once they’re back in the hallway, and Richie nods quickly.   
  
“Anything. What do you need, baby?”   
  
“Would you hold my hands?” Richie immediately reaches for them, clasping them firmly in his own grip. Richie’s hands dwarf Eddie’s shaking ones by a considerable amount, Richie’s growth spurt hitting him hard in the last year and Eddie still being small as ever. But Eddie doesn’t mind his size, doesn’t mind the feeling of being smaller than Richie. Richie doesn’t consider him weak just because he’s small, and neither do any of his friends, so the loop of his mother’s voice is quiet for a moment in Richie’s hands. It makes him feel safer, here, in his school, this hallway, this suit, this body. His body. He can feel Richie’s thumb grazing his knuckles over and over again, and he’s shocked that he can. He’s shocked that he has skin at all. “I can feel that,” he marvels, light of breath.   
  
“Yeah?” Richie asks quietly, squeezing his hands and knocking them together lightly. “Good.” Eddie’s breathing starts to slow as Richie looks at him. Eddie is not looking back, he’s looking at his hands and the way they look engulfed by Richie’s, the contact of skin on skin, how they’re both so wonderfully and completely human. But he’s comforted knowing that, if he wanted to, he could look up and see Richie’s cosmically dark eyes. Eddie is sure they hold the mysteries of the universe, that they hold galaxies inside them.   
  
He does eventually look up and Richie smiles. His eyes are glowing. Cosmic. “Hey,” Eddie says, softly, his voice breaking.   
  
“Hi, love,” Richie whispers back. He smiles down at him and unclasps one of their hands to thumb at his mouth. “You’ve got…” Richie break off with a giggle, “some of my lipstick on your mouth. And while it looks sinfully gorgeous, I don’t think you want to go back in there looking like that.”   
  
Eddie shakes his head, dutifully keeping his mouth shut as Richie wipes away the remnants of their kiss. When he’s finished, Eddie licks his own thumb and fusses with the edges of Richie’s lipstick that had been smudged. Once he’s finished, he leans back and surveys his work.   
  
“Perfect,” he announces, linking their hands back together. They both hear a loud, long cheer from the gymnasium and they lock eyes. “Looks like it’s the crowning ceremony.”   
  
“Wanna go see who wins?” Eddie smiles.   
  
“Definitely.”   
  
They hurry back down the hall, joined by their hands, and Eddie feels like he’s in a movie for a moment. It passes just before entering the room and Richie unclasps their hands. Eddie’s not sure he would’ve remembered to let go if Richie hadn’t done it first. “And your Homecoming King for the year of 1992 is…” Mr. Proust says, opening the envelope.   
  
“Looks like we made it just in time,” Richie whispers into Eddie’s ear, and he smiles.   
  
“Good thing, too,” Richie pulls back and looks at him quizzically.   
  
“Richie Tozier!”   
  
They hear a smattering of applause, some confused murmurs, and five loud, boisterous cheers. They’re certain it’s Beverly they can hear screaming her head off, high-pitched and proud. Richie’s eyes widen he smiles down at Eddie who looks smug as everyone starts to look around for Richie, but they’re hidden in the back of the room for a moment that belongs to just them.   
  
“Did you do this?” he asks, wondrously.   
  
“I had help,” Eddie shrugs, a callback to the holiday party, and Richie groans, leaning down to whisper into Eddie’s ear.   
  
“I wish I could kiss you now more than ever.”   
  
“Feeling’s mutual, babe,” Eddie responds. “Now, go on. Daddy’s gotta get his crown.”   
  
Richie laughs loudly, head thrown back, as he makes his way through the crowd and takes the stage, Mr. Proust giving him a scepter and crowning him. As he does this though, they all hear someone yell something out in the crowd.   
  
_“Faggot!”_ _  
_   
Silence. There’s no laughter. No one scolds him. There’s just complete silence as everyone looks at Henry Bowers, angry and red-faced, glaring Richie on the stage. Eddie’s eyes widen. _Of course,_ he thinks. _Of course something went wrong. I can’t do anything right, even the stuff I try to do for other people._ _  
_   
But for Richie, this is a fight, flight or freeze moment. He’s not angry at Henry. He’s not even scared. He’s mostly just shocked. Did he really have the gall to do that? Did he really just yell that right now? Does he really think that’s okay? He could run offstage and leave the dance entirely. He could stand there, roasting in the bright stage lights like a lunatic while Mr. Proust does nothing. But he wants to fight back. He wants to put Henry in his place. He wants Henry to realize that calling people, his friends, himself, these names isn’t okay. So, he does the only thing he can think to do: he pulls out Trashmouth, dons his armor, and fights.   
  
Richie takes the microphone from Mr. Proust’s dumbfoundedly slack grip and says, “Yep, sure am! And it’s a gay ol’ time, Henry. You should try it!”   
  
“Alright, alright,” Mr. Proust says, taking the microphone back to everyone’s relieved laughter. Oh, my God, every one of the members of the Losers’ Club thinks. Richie just came out of the closet on stage at the fucking Homecoming Dance. “Time to announce Homecoming Queen.”   
  
Beverly’s head whips around and she makes eye contact with Eddie, eyes wide.   
  
“And your Homecoming Queen is…”   
  
_Oh, I hope this doesn’t turn out badly,_ Beverly thinks, crossing her fingers where her arms hang limp at her sides. Onstage, Mr. Proust takes off his reading glasses and squints, as if he can’t believe what he’s reading.   
  
“Bill Denbrough?” Mr. Proust questions, putting his glasses back where they belong. “I guess that’s what it says. Bill… Maybe they meant Billie. Billie Denbrough!”   
  
Even less applause for this announcement come, but the Losers scream even louder than they did for Richie, mostly out of fear for what happens next. Stanley claps Bill on the back, who’s smiling bashfully, cheeks flaming.   
  
“Go get your crown, my queen,” Stanley says, smiling. Bill looks back starry-eyed.   
  
“Did you…?”   
  
“It was Bev and Eddie. We all helped do recon though,” Stanley admits. Bill nods, smiling back. He passes Beverly on his way to the stage and squeezes her hand. She looks back, a relieved smile on her face. Bill takes the stage and Richie calls out, “My queen!”   
  
“So, Billie Denbrough is a boy. How progressive,” Mr. Proust says, voice flat, crowning Bill with the delicate tiara. “Well,” the teacher says into the microphone. “It’s customary for the King and Queen to dance to a tune, so, DJ, hit it, I guess.”   
  
The opening trumpet to _Can’t Take My Eyes Off You_ by Frankie Valli comes through the speakers. Richie bends at the waist and offers his hand to Bill.   
  
“May I have this dance, Billie Denbrough?” Bill laughs, loud and bright, a lighthouse’s bell in the dark, vast storm of hate and confusion. Richie looks up, grinning, and Bill nods, taking his hand.   
  
“I’d be honored, Richie Tozier.” They descend the stairs of the stage, hands still clasped, and begin dancing together, Richie’s head on Bill’s chest.   
  
_You’re just too good to be true_ _  
_ _Can’t take my eyes off you_ _  
_   
The trumpets and drums kick up and Richie leans back and he has a manic smile smeared across his face. “You wanna give these folks a show, Billy?”   
  
Bill just grins back, releasing his hold on Richie’s waist crooking his arm, hand on his own waist. Richie hooks their arms together, and they begin doing the can-can. Some of their classmates giggle, but they can hear the clear sounds of the rest of their group’s laughter cut through the music. They smile at each other before Bill takes Richie’s hand and spins him.   
  
“My stars, Billy! Where did you learn those moves! They’re outta this world!” Richie gasps in the Southern Belle Voice he’s been fond of lately.   
  
“Well, hold on to your h-h-h-hat, Mr. Tozier,” Bill smiles, dipping Richie low before bringing him back up. Their group cheers loudly at that, Eddie letting out the loud whistle he figured out he can do with his hands at age ten. The song fades and they laugh together, Richie throwing his arms around Bill’s neck.   
  
“Thanks, Billy, you’re a good pal,” Richie says, and Bill knows he means you’re my best friend. Bill returns the sentiment in spades.   
  
“S-Same here, Richie,” Bill responds, patting Richie’s back.   
  
As the night winds down, all of them dancing together, Richie slips away to the DJ’s table where he’s spinning records.   
  
“I’ll do your math homework for a week if you play this song,” Richie says, slipping the DJ who replaced the first one, a sophomore named Kyle Lawrence who’s a music fanatic and infamous around the town for dealing drugs, a piece of paper. The DJ gives him a flat look without even reading it.   
  
“I don’t need you to do my math homework, Tozier.”   
  
“What, you think I’m not smart?” Kyle looks away, eyebrows raised, and shrugs. Richie laughs at him cruelly.   
  
“I get straight A’s in every class, hotshot. Just because I goof off doesn’t mean I couldn’t write circles around you,” Richie responds, hands on his hips, one eyebrow raised, towering over him. Kyle shrinks.   
  
“Look, I don’t need my homework done. What I need is $10 to buy Lizzy Cochran one of those rose bouquets they’re selling at the door.” Richie laughs, shrugging, and pulling out his wallet.   
  
“How romantic. I was gonna take my friend out for ice cream after the dance, but I suppose a song is better,” he shrugs, sliding him a ten. “Don’t forget. I expect you to play this song next, alright, bucko?” Richie punches Kyle’s shoulder a little harder than he would’ve if Kyle hadn’t insinuated he isn’t intelligent. Kyle rubs the spot on his arm for a moment, but just grumbles and searches through the stacks of records. Richie turns on his heel and goes to walk out of the booth, but Kyle’s voice stops him.   
  
“Hey, Richie,” he calls. Richie turns and sees Kyle’s smile look a little too sinister to be friendly. “You never called me back.”   
  
They both know what he means. He never called Kyle back last spring about the shipment of cocaine that came in which Richie told him he was going to buy. Richie blanches, having nearly forgotten about that point in his life, before shrugging.   
  
“I guess I lost your number,” Richie says, voice weak.   
  
“Do you need a reminder?” Kyle smirks. Richie wants to say no, but after the odd night he’s had, both with Eddie and just coming out in such a public, nearly humiliating way, he nearly says yes as well. He’s trapped in a limbo of wanting something to take away his pain that he knows would tear his friends apart. At the thought of his friends, his mind flickers to the song he chose for Kyle to play and why he chose it. Just the thought of Eddie and their childhood and all the time they have left to spend together makes him shake his head.   
  
“No. I don’t think I do.” 

Richie turns and walks out of the booth without a second glance and he feels both shaky and terrified and wholly alive. He just resisted something he never thought he’d be able to. He feels weightless. He goes back to the group that’s laughing and dancing and joins them, shaking out his shoulders and trying to ignore his nerves.  
  
Beverly is off to the side, walking over to get herself some punch when she sees a sweet-looking girl with sandy blonde kinky hair and a poofy pink dress staring at the punch bowl dubiously. Beverly chuckles and walks over to her, nodding at the bowl.   
  
“Careful with that,” Beverly warns with a smile, “it’s pretty deadly this year.”   
  
“What do you mean?” the girl asks. She looks up at Beverly and when she does, her eyes widen, not in recognition, but in something that makes Beverly’s stomach flip.   
  
“Seniors notoriously dump gallons of alcohol in this shit every year. It’s particularly strong this time around.” The girl nods, taking a step away from the bowl.   
  
“Thanks for the warning,” she grimaces.   
  
“No problem,” Beverly smirks, pouring herself a glass.   
  
“Hey! I thought you said it was deadly!” the girl chides with a small smile.   
  
“Eh,” Beverly shrugs, smiling back, “I can take the heat.” She sticks her hand out. “Beverly Marsh.”   
  
“Katherine Thackeray. But most people call me Kate… Or Katie… Or just Katherine is fine…” Kate trails off nervously.   
  
Beverly hums, taking a sip of her drink. “How about I call you something different then?”   
  
“Different?”   
  
“Yeah. Bet you’ve heard every nickname under the sun. I wanna be special,” Beverly grins, and Kate looks up at her starry-eyed.   
  
“Okay… Sure, you can be special,” she breathes.   
  
“I think I’ll call you…” She thinks for a while, studying the girl with the burning cheeks before her. She’s short, only up to Beverly’s shoulder, and fills out her dress nicely. Where Beverly is bony elbows and sharp knees, this girl is soft curves and a gentleness that Beverly could never even attempt to possess. It makes Beverly’s heart leap in her chest. “Kay.”   
  
“Kay,” Kate repeats with a smile, nodding down at her heels, only about an inch high. “I like that.”   
  
“Good,” Beverly smiles. She looks around and spots Richie dancing with Ben and Mike, and she tips her head over towards them. “I gotta go congratulate my friend over there for winning Homecoming King, but… I’ll see you soon, alright?”   
  
“Hopefully,” Kate says dreamily before snapping her mouth shut, cheeks flaming. “Um… Shoot, I mean…”   
  
“It’s fine, Kay,” Beverly laughs, stepping backwards while still remaining eye contact. “I hope so, too.” She sends Kate one of her signature winks that she’s been told by Richie could make anyone weak at the knees, and Kate smiles bashfully, toeing at the ground with the point of her heel.   
  
“Hey,” she calls out, voice soft before Beverly is completely out of earshot. “You’re friends with the Homecoming King?”   
  
“Yeah, I am,” Beverly says, a touch of worry in her voice. She knows now that associating herself with Richie means branding herself as something she’s proud to be, but she knows most of the world doesn’t feel the same. “He’s my best friend.”   
  
“Wow…” Kate marvels, smiling slightly. “What he did was really brave. I could never… Just… Anyway, it was incredible.”   
  
“Yeah,” Beverly says, smiling back wide and crooked, the way she does when she’s wholly comfortable. “I think so, too.” Beverly tips her cup up towards her. Kate scrambles, patting the table for a clean cup. Once she grabs one, she holds it up, too. Beverly giggles, shaking her head fondly before turning and heading towards Richie.   
  
Richie can smell the strong stench of alcohol wafting from the cup she’s holding when Beverly makes her way over to him, and he tries to mask whatever he’s still feeling after coming out and resisting temptation by eyeing the red cup with a curious expression.   
  
“Hey, Bevs. Thirsty?” Beverly smiles, loose and happy.   
  
“Parched. You should have a sip,” she insists, giving him the cup. He accepts, drinking gratefully from the absolutely wretched tasting punch. He winces.   
  
“Yikes. Seniors really went all out this year, didn’t they?” Beverly nods, grinning.   
  
“Much to our advantage. Would you like me to go get you your own cup?” Richie shakes his head.   
  
“I’m good. Not big on public intoxication,” he says, and Beverly realizes he’s seen his mother be drunk in public too many times to be fond of it. She nods, tipping her cup to him.   
  
“Cheers anyway,” she says. He tips his imaginary hat to her. “Hey,” she says, the slur in her voice lessened and the clouds in her eyes parted considerably. “I’m so fucking proud of you for what you did up on that stage. Putting Bowers in his place, coming out like that. You’re a hero for all of us who can’t for… whatever reason.” She waves a hand in the air vaguely and Richie smiles wistfully, gratefully. He grabs her hand from where it’s about to accidentally slap him in the face and squeezes it. She leans over and kisses him on the cheek. “You’re fuckin’ incredible. I’m so glad you’re happy. You are happy, right? Everything good after _Total Eclipse?”_   
  
“Yeah, everything’s good… Everything’s… great, Bev,” Richie smiles, thinking about the rabbit hole he almost went down with Kyle and everything he’s been through to get where he is. “Things are hard, yeah, but that’s what being in a relationship is, I think. You know?” Beverly nods, looking thoughtful. She wonders if that was the problem with her and Bill - everything was easy. There was joy, there was fun and happiness, but there was no heat, nothing was hard. “It’s supposed to be hard if you want it to be good, too. You’ve gotta sift through the hard stuff to get to the good stuff. And shit, the good stuff is so good.”   
  
“Ugh, gross, Tozier,” she groans, slapping his arm.   
  
“No,” Richie laughs, shrinking away from her. “I don’t mean like that! Well… I don’t mean just like that…” She hits him again and he laughs even harder. “I’m kidding, fuck! Let me have my jokes, Beverly! I’d never deflower that precious tulip without waiting the proper amount of time and marrying him in front of his mother and the eyes of God. Cross my heart.”   
  
“Oh, please. Like I believe you aren’t just waiting to jump that boy’s bones.” Richie simply shrugs. When it comes to what Richie wants to do, he screams it all out for the world to hear, regardless of if it’s listening. But what he doesn’t do? That, he keeps hidden in the spaces between his ribs, kept nestled deep in the caging protecting his heart. Not even Beverly will hear from him that Richie has no intention of going further with Eddie than what they’ve done until they’re both sure and ready. It’s not that it isn’t her business; Richie believes that the Losers’ Club shouldn’t keep very many secrets - it’s bad for their hearts and never turns out well for any of them. But Richie isn’t entirely comfortable with any of them believing he’s anything other than terrible.   
  
“Whatever you say…” Richie responds vaguely. Beverly shakes her head with a small smile, taking a generous sip of her horrendous punch.   
  
“Well, Tozier, what I definitely say is that a lot of people are probably really fucking impressed with you right now. More than just us,” Beverly says. No one would be able to tell Richie was affected by the words Beverly had said if it wasn’t for the spark in his eyes. His mouth is set in a jaunty, playful smirk, and his brow his raised challengingly, but Beverly can see right through him. She always can.   
  
“Oh, yeah?”   
  
“Yeah,” she says, smiling much more genuinely than he is, loose and proud. “I think you’d be surprised to know that there’s a lot more of us in this crowd than there are Henry Bowers’.”   
  
Richie rolls his eyes, smile drooping. “Yeah, I bet,” he says sarcastically.   
  
“Eh,” she says mildly, looking around, as if searching for someone. “You never know.” She seems to catch someone’s eye and her smile grows, but when Richie turns to try to find whoever Beverly is looking at, he finds no one looking at them but Bill. They smile at him as he walks over to them. He’s out of breath and on the tail-end of what looks to be hysterical laughter.   
  
“What’s so funny, Big Bill?” Richie asks when he gets closer.   
  
“I think I know,” Beverly giggles, “if it has something to do with the five girls I saw asking Bill to dance tonight.”   
  
“No!” Richie gasps, doubling over in laughter. “Did they know they were screwing a boy betrothed to the throne?!”   
  
“Shut up, Rich!” Bill groans, blushing. “It was really emb-b-barrassing!”   
  
“Well, they all know you’re mine now!” Richie crows, grabbing Bill by the hand and trying to spin him, failing miserably. Bill is only a few inches shorter than him, but he’s not expecting it, so he tumbles to the ground. Richie laughs despite himself.   
  
“Oh, my heavens, Billie Denbrough, have you fallen for me?” Richie asks, Southern Belle Voice back in full swing, reaching out his hand and pulling Bill to his feet.   
  
“Richie, you know I fell for you a long time ag-g-go,” Bill grins. “Hey, do you want me to t-t-teach you how to spin someone fo-fo-for real?”   
  
“Sure, Billy Boy, that sounds like fun!” They set out to learn it and, once Richie really starts to pay attention and stops goofing around, it only takes him three tries before he’s got it down perfectly.   
  
“You’ve got it, Richie!” Bill exclaims, pride obvious in his voice.   
  
“Where did you learn to dance like this, anyway?” Richie asks, music dying down before they play the next song.   
  
“Oh, my mom put me in dance lessons when I was a k-k-kid, trying to get me to socialize, be better with making friends.” Richie smiles.   
  
“I think you’ve got that pretty much covered now, don’cha, Big Bill?” Richie asserts, and Bill gives him a comfortable grin.   
  
“Maybe so.”   
  
The opening riff to _Never Let Me Go_ by Lloyd Price fill the room, a slower song, and everyone begins pairing off, but, for Richie, this is the moment. This is Richie’s moment. He paid money for this. He walks up to Eddie who’s talking to Stanley.   
  
“Excuse me, Sir Kaspbrak, but may I have this dance?” Richie asks, shuffling a bit, as he almost always is. Eddie looks at him, heavenstruck.   
  
“Are you sure?” Eddie whispers, a bit dazed. Eddie recognizes this song, of course he does. It’s the song Richie boasts as “the most romantic song ever recorded.” It’s the song that makes Richie ‘wish he lived in the 1950s.’ (“No, you don’t, babe, you’d be clocked and murdered for being gay.” “Okay, there were _some_ things wrong with the 50s, but the _music,_ Eds, the _music_ .”) It’s the song Eddie always imagined, since the ripe old age of 12, that a boy would sing to him.   
  
“I’m positive, darling,” Richie responds quietly, offering his hand. “If you’re sure.”   
  
No one is looking at them, all of them lost in each other’s eyes and Stanley having given them both a pat on their shoulders and walked away already, but Eddie knows they could look. He realizes the implications of that all too strongly. Richie had just come out to the school. They all know Richie’s not exactly straight anymore. Dancing with any boy is going to label that person as his boyfriend, label that person as gay as well. Bill clearly was able to handle that, handle the spotlight of that dance, what it meant. Eddie has to ask himself, and ask quickly, is he?   
  
Richie suddenly looks nervous at Eddie’s pause, his wavering silence, and starts to draw his hand away, but Eddie grabs it tightly before he can take back his hand and take back the offer.   
  
“I’m sure. I’m 100% sure,” he says, and he’s shocked his voice doesn’t shake like his hands do. Richie, of course, must feel that, feel the trepidation in his gait, but he smiles anyway and grabs Eddie’s waist, reeling him in gently.   
  
_Darling, hold me_ _  
_ _Hold me, hold me_ _  
_ _And never, never, never let me go_ _  
_   
Eddie leans his head on Richie’s chest, letting Richie take the lead of this dance, and Eddie is shocked that it’s even happening at all. It feels like he’s in a movie or a play, like he’s leading someone else’s life and someone is about to yell _cut!_ backstage. Another film-worthy moment in the night of Eddie Kaspbrak. He never feels real, never feels like his body is his own, but right now, his whole life feels too good to be real at all.   
  
“Hey,” Richie whispers. “You’re still shaking.”   
  
“Am I?” Eddie wonders. He looks down at the hand he has clasped in Richie’s, and, yep, there he is, shaking like a leaf. “I didn’t notice.”   
  
“Are you alright? Is this too much? We can stop,” Richie says, already beginning to untangle their bodies, but Eddie holds fast, grabbing Richie’s shoulder blades tightly.   
  
“Not so fast, mister,” Eddie warns. “I haven’t gotten the whole dance I was promised yet.”   
  
Richie smiles. “I suppose you haven’t.”   
  
Richie hooks his chin over the crown of Eddie’s head and Eddie can feel him singing softly from the vibrations of Richie’s throat against his cheek. Eddie pulls back.   
  
“Sing to me,” he says, and Richie smiles.   
  
“I thought my voice was terrible, Stan says so,” Richie responds cheekily.   
  
Eddie hums. “I dunno, maybe it’s just an inkling, but I feel like your voice would go nicely with this song.” They smile dopily at one another before Richie begins singing softly to him, voice silken and pitched low so that only Eddie can hear how he sounds when he tries.   
  
_Lock my heart, throw away the key_ _  
_ _Fill my love with ecstasy_ _  
_ _Bind my heart with your warm embrace_ _  
_ _And tell me no one could ever take my place_ _  
_   
They spin around in circles clumsily, stepping on each other’s feet and giggling. Right before the song fades out, Richie braces himself and tries spinning Eddie the way Bill taught him. It goes off without a hitch, Eddie being the perfect height to go under Richie’s elbow, and he reels Eddie back into his chest with a smile. Eddie looks at him like he hung the moon, the sun and all the stars. To Eddie, he might as well have.   
  
_Darling, tell me_ _  
_ _Tell me, tell me..._ _  
_   
As the song fades out and Richie and Eddie move away from each other to avoid being seen, Eddie looks around sharply. No one is staring at them at all - no one seemed to have even noticed the two boys dancing together. Eddie breathes out slowly, the stream of air coming out as a hiss, and as the DJ announces the last song, Richie smiles at him softly.   
  
“You have a good time tonight, Eds?” Eddie nods gently, smiling back.   
  
“Yeah. Yeah, I did. How are you feeling, after what happened on stage?” Eddie implores, tone kind and soft. Richie shrugs without breaking eye contact with Eddie, his smile growing.   
  
“Was worth it as long as I’m king of the school. My little Eddie Spaghetti, stroking my ego.”   
  
“Don’t call me that!” Eddie shrieks over _Celebration_ by Kool And The Gang. As everyone dances wildly around them, bouncing and singing happily, Richie just smiles dopily as Eddie.   
  
“As you wish.”   
  
After the dance is over, they all pool together their money and buy a bouquet of a dozen roses. Since all the thorns have already been sheared off, they tuck them behind each other’s ears. Richie sticks an extra one in Eddie’s lapel.   
  
“Hey, look at that!” Richie croons. “You match!” He points back and forth between the rose in his suit jacket to his floral pink and red button-down, a look of absolute glee on his face. Eddie pats him on the cheek.   
  
“That I do, honey.”   
  
  
  
They’re all walking home from the dance together (they all mutually decided not to drive knowing what they know about the state of the punch at Derry Central dances) and Beverly cannot stop talking about how much her feet hurt and how it is unfair that women have to fit into the completely ‘whacked-out patriarchy’ of having to wear high heels. She may be a bit tipsy. A bit. She won’t admit anything more.   
  
“D-Didn’t a woman create heels, Beverly?” Bill asks. She stops and looks at him for a while and then takes off her shoes in the middle of the sidewalk.   
  
“Just for that, you have to carry me now, Denbrough. And my shoes.” Bill smiles.   
  
“Fine with me, Marsh.”   
  
So that’s how Beverly ends up on Bill’s back, arms out straight in front of her, pointing out directions like she’s on the top of a ship, even though they all walk home from school together everyday. Beverly ends up taking Bill’s tiara off his end and pronouncing herself queen of the ship. They’ve all taken different positions on a pirate ship now, since Richie immediately joins in with a terrible pirate Voice, talking about how he needs Ben to swab the decks. He makes Eddie his First Mate (“Shocker,” Mike says, and Richie flips him off without even looking at him) and instructs him to, quote, ‘do pirate things’.   
  
“Richie, do you not know what happens on a ship? I could deal with the sails, I could -- ”   
  
“Sails are beneath you, sugar!” Richie cries out, arms splayed wide. “Go do whatever it is that pirates do; go tell someone to walk the plank, make someone swab the decks -- ”   
  
“I’m already swabbing the decks!” Ben yells and the rest of them laugh loudly. “The decks have been swabbed!”   
  
“ -- but you absolutely cannot do any work! No First Mate of mine will be working on my watch.”   
  
“Who died and made you captain, anyway?” Stanley asks. “Bill is Homecoming queen. I suggest mutiny.”   
  
“But I have his crown! I’m the queen, why can’t I mutinize?!” Beverly shouts.   
  
“Because I have the crown, you simply have a tiara. You and Eds gave it to me and I’m not giving it up!” Richie says, protecting his head with his hands, as if someone were stupid enough to take it from him. It would certainly involve a brawl in the street, if Richie had anything to say about it. “Say, Eds, how lucky are you to be getting to screw royalty tonight?”   
  
Richie’s eyebrows jump several times and Eddie groans loudly. “Oh, my God, I hate you.”   
  
“No, you _don’t_ ,” Richie croons back, stretching out the last word as long as he can before getting hit by his boyfriend, who rolls his eyes in response.   
  
“You do realize we can hear you guys, right?” Mike says, laughter in his voice.   
  
“Yeah,” Richie responds. “That’s the fun of it.”   
  
“Alright,” Mike says loudly, interrupting Eddie who would certainly turn what Richie said into a nuclear argument that would end easily with Richie’s touch and fond gaze. _These two are so easy,_ Mike thinks. “This is the street to get back to the farm. Stan the Man, you still crashing at my place?”   
  
“Yes siree, Mikey,” Stanley says. “Comin’, babe?” he turns to Bill, who nods before craning his neck to peer up at Beverly.   
  
“Y-You, too, Bev?” She smiles down at him before resting her cheek on top of his head with a sleepy sigh.   
  
“I’m too tired to walk to my apartment,” she insists, and the boys all chuckle fondly, “so I guess so…”   
  
“You kids behave yourselves now!” Richie says sternly. “And I want a full report!”   
  
“In your fucking dreams, Tozier,” Stanley shakes his head as he slaps Eddie on the back. He points at Richie. “You be good tonight.”   
  
“Why, whatever do you mean, Stanley?” Richie says, Southern Belle Voice loud and proud. “I am merely a southern girl with the purest of intentions!”   
  
“Yeah,” Eddie snorts, muttering so lowly only Richie can hear him. “Real pure…”   
  
Richie looks at him delightedly. “Only the best for my court jester.”   
  
“Who are you calling a court jester! If anyone’s a court jester it’s you!” Eddie calls out. He lunges for the top of Richie’s head and Richie starts laughing. “Give me that crown! You don’t deserve to wear it!”   
  
“ _Goodbye_ , guys,” Ben says forcefully as he follows after the rest of their friends.   
  
“Oh! Bye, guys! Love you!” Eddie says from where his arms are wrapped around Richie’s head.   
  
“We love you, too,” Mike grins, and Richie unlatches one hand from where he’s trying to pry Eddie’s arms off of him and waves.   
  
“So long!”   
  
  
Richie and Eddie had decided previously they were going to sleep at Richie’s house, but when they get there, they hear the TV blaring loudly, a glass shattering, and Richie’s mother swearing. Richie looks over at Eddie and his eyes widen. Shit.   
  
They rush into the kitchen where they heard glass breaking and see Maggie Tozier bent down, swaying in place, thumbing at the place where a shard of glass cut her foot. They both look down to see what had dropped: a whiskey bottle.   
  
“Mom! Are you okay?” Richie asks, taking a step forward. Eddie wishes he brought his backpack with his first aid supplies inside it.   
  
“Oh! Richie, darling!” she cries. “I didn’t know you’d be home so soon!”   
  
“Mags, it’s 11:30 PM,” he responds softly.   
  
“Well, wow, look at that,” she laughs, hiccuping, pointing lazily at the kitchen clock. “It certainly is. And, hey, you brought the Kaspbrak boy! What a sweet thing you are, Eddie. I’m so glad you two are friends. Such a good influence on my Richie you are…” she mumbles, trailing off by the end. Richie looks back and makes eye contact briefly with Eddie, as if to gain strength from the nod he gives him, and then faces his mother once more.   
  
“Mom, have you been drinking?”   
  
“What’s it to you?” Maggie accuses harshly, suddenly rounding on him in a quick change of emotions that has Richie’s head spinning. “So what if I have? I was alone, I didn’t have anyone to take care of. You’re mostly self-sufficient anyway, you make your own dinners.”   
  
“That’s because I had to learn how on my own, Mags,” Richie responds, not unkindly. He doesn’t want to upset her more than he already has and make things worse.   
  
“Well, I didn’t know how to raise a boy, Richie!” she yells and Richie takes a step backwards at her tone. “I expected to have another girl, or to have Wentworth raise you! And then Went left and you just… I don’t understand you, Richie. Jess, I get. But you? Your jokes are from ‘source material I haven’t viewed’ and I don’t know why you can’t just have a normal conversation with me for once. Why couldn’t you be more like Jess…?” The last sentence is mumbled, but both Richie and Eddie hear it as if it’s in surround sound.   
  
Eddie has never wanted to be violent before in this moment. He wants to punch the wall, scream in Maggie’s face _Richie Tozier is absolutely perfect and you neglecting him and pitting him against his sister didn’t ruin him! It didn’t! Despite your best efforts, you did not ruin this lovely, kind-hearted, heart-wrenchingly beautiful creature!_ But he knows not only would that not be helpful, but this is not Eddie’s battle to fight, so he stays silent and stock-still behind Richie.   
  
“I…” Richie tries to speak, but he doesn’t even know where to start. He’s always known his mother favored Jess, but to hear it so plainly said? And to his face? His heart is shattered. Eddie decides, fuck it, and grabs his hand, knowing if Maggie even notices, she won’t remember by morning. Richie, remembering Eddie is in the room and not wanting to hash this out with his mother in front of him, firmly grips Eddie’s hand back and squeezes his eyes shut, willing the tears away, before squaring his shoulders and facing her.   
  
“We’re… We’re going to go to Eddie’s for the night, okay, Mom? You get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning.” Maggie waves them away, muttering unintelligibly under her breath. They turn and head towards the door, but Maggie’s voice stops them.   
  
“Oh, and Eddie?” They both turn in the hall and face her together. “I like your makeup.” It’s not said with a smirk or maliciously, like she knows the glitter on Eddie’s face and the darker pink shade of his lips that they couldn’t wipe off completely is from Richie. It’s said like it was always there. Like a compliment. It shows just how truly inebriated she is and both of them realize that she probably won’t remember a lick of the conversation they just had in the morning.   
  
“Thank you, Mrs. Tozier,” he responds, voice even and flat. She doesn’t correct him like she usually does and tell him to call her Maggie. Eddie can see Richie is about to either blow up at his mother or cry until there’s nothing left of him, so he pulls Richie out the door gently by the hand and away from the house.   
  
They’re about three blocks down the street when Richie suddenly sits down in the dirt and begins crying into his hands. What’s left of Eddie’s heart breaks at the sight.   
  
“Why can’t I have a normal family, Eds?” He looks up at Eddie and he looks absolutely miserable, glitter in tear-tracks on his face. “Like Bill. Bill is so well-adjusted and happy and normal. He’s got a sibling who actually likes him. You should be with someone like Bill. You don’t deserve to be with someone who’s fucked up like this, with this fucked up of a home life. I try to hide it and deny it, and so does my mom. She taught me well.” He gives a rueful smile, but it fades as quickly as it came. “But it’s impossible to hide anything from you.”   
  
Eddie kneels down on the sidewalk in front of him primly, trying not to get dirty, and the movements are so careful and familiar to Richie that they bring a brief smile to his face. “Richie, honey, it’s okay. I don’t want you to hide anything from me. I never did. You’re my favorite person; I want to know everything about you. Even the…” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them, he expects the smile he gives to be fake, but looking at Richie’s glitter-and-red-rimmed eyes, a true, amiable smile comes easily. “Even the messy stuff. And that stuff about Bill? It’s bullshit. I love Bill, everyone loves Bill. But everyone loves you, too. We made you king and queen for a reason, angel. I wanna be with you. Not Bill or someone ‘well-adjusted’ like Bill. You. Only you. Okay?”   
  
Eddie’s holding both of Richie’s hands crossed in his and against his chest and he’s got his forehead pressed to Richie’s by the end of his speech. He laughs lightly. “And, anyway, have you met my mother? You’re not the only one with issues at home, babe, trust me.”   
  
But as far as Richie’s concerned, Eddie’s perfect. Eddie thinks the same of Richie; he thinks that makes them a good team.   
  
They get up and amble towards Eddie’s house, discussing how they’re going to get into the house without Eddie’s mom pitching a fit. They eventually decide they’re going to have Eddie go in by himself and Richie is going to scale the tree outside Eddie’s bedroom window, climb onto the roof, and sneak inside. Eddie bids him goodbye with a chaste kiss a few hundred feet away from his house and walks inside to see his mother sitting on the recliner, TV off, waiting for him.   
  
“Eddie, you didn’t tell me when you were coming home. I was worried sick.”   
  
“Sorry, Mommy, I went to Richie’s for a bit,” he explains, and the truth sits with a glowing warmth in his chest. Lying to anyone makes him feel nauseous, but especially his mother. She conditioned him to believe that lying to her was an offense worse than anything.   
  
“Oh, that Tozier boy? He’s dirty, Eddie, why do you insist on playing with him?”   
  
“He’s my best friend, Mom,” Eddie responds, getting a bit incensed. “And we don’t _play,_ we’re sixteen years old.”   
  
“Well, you’ll always be my baby, Eddie Bear.” Eddie’s skin feels too tight on his body. He gets that unreal feeling again, that feeling of being a visitor in his own body, a passerby in his own house, a guest in his own family. He wonders if that will ever go away.   
  
“I’m going to go upstairs, Mom, I’m tired.” Sonia nods, but then steps closer, and then thumbs at his cheek. He barely feels it but he knows she did it a bit roughly due to how quickly she pulls her hand away. She looks down at her finger disgustedly.

 

“Glitter,” she says accusingly. Eddie’s skin tightens further.  
  
“It must’ve just been from the confetti at the dance.” She narrows her eyes at him, but then eventually steps back.  
  
“Okay, honey. I love you.” Eddie looks away, but nods back.  
  
“You, too.” He’s gotten out of the habit of saying I love you to his mother. He loves her, he does. He just doesn’t like the way she uses that love as a form of control. He bounds up the stairs, closes his bedroom door, locking it, and heading straight for his window. He opens it and looks around to see Richie waiting by the base of the tree, mostly obscured and out of sight due to the shadows. He opens the window and Richie immediately starts shouting.  
  
“Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?” he cries, and Eddie shushes him.  
  
“Shut the fuck up, you idiot.”  
  
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” Richie bellows, crawling over to the window.  
  
“I’m going to push you off this windowsill,” he deadpans, going to shut the window.  
  
“But, Sleeping Beauty, don’t you need true love’s kiss?” Richie pipes back, quieter now that he’s closer to the house, and he shoots Eddie a winning smile. Eddie feels a piece of himself come back from wherever it goes to hide when he’s around his mother.  
  
“Oh, I need something alright,” he teases sweetly, pulling Richie in by his tie.  
  
They wait on Eddie’s bed, backs to the wall, simply sitting and playing with each other’s fingers until they hear Sonia go to bed. It doesn’t take more than five minutes, and then they tip-toe straight to the attic above the garage where Eddie’s mom keeps the boxes of old clothes. Eddie keeps his suit in there, hanging on a rafter, because he doesn’t have enough room for it in his tiny bedroom closet. He takes off his suit jacket and hangs it up, and Richie also strips off his jacket, laying it on a box. He pops open a few buttons of his shirt and rolls up his sleeves.  
  
“Man, it’s hot up here, Kaspbrak,” Richie comments on a whisper. “Does Mrs. K not believe in air conditioning past September 1st?” He grabs an old, abandoned comic book from the floor, left over from their days as kids reading up here in the summer, and begins leafing through it while Eddie stares at him and drinks in his appearance.  
  
Richie is still wearing the crown, however it is now sideways on his head from all the jostling it got from Richie scaling the tree. His floral high-waisted pants fit him perfectly. Eddie doesn’t feel a flare of jealousy that Richie’s mom allowed him to rent a new suit for this, not like the suit that Eddie had already worn for Stanley’s bar mitzvah that miraculously still fit him. He just feels his face flush hot at the fact that they’re alone together, not needing to rush a kiss in a bathroom, or sneak one by the entrance of the gym before the teachers see them. No, they are blissfully alone, aside from Eddie’s mother on the other side of the house, asleep in bed, and they can do whatever they’d like.  
  
Richie has the fullest intentions of never putting any pressure on Eddie to go any further than just some light petting, knowing Richie was his first kiss, first touch, first everything. That responsibility sits heady and heavy in Richie’s hands and he wants to take care of him, let Eddie take the reigns and do whatever he wants at whatever pace he wants. Richie would be fine with waiting as long as necessary for whatever comes next.  
  
Eddie, however, has other plans. He sees no point in waiting for a right moment, a magic fucking carpet ride. This is real life, this is Richie and Eddie, and every moment is right when they’re together.  
  
“Richie,” Eddie says, voice thick with something neither of them have heard before. Richie looks up at him from the book he’s thumbing through, and tilts his head at him.  
  
“Yeah, darlin’?” Richie smiles, and it’s soft and fond and kind and Eddie just wants to absolutely positively ruin him. He has the thought that he should be sexy and demanding in this moment, but in the end, his worries about earlier that night and Richie’s comfortability win out.  
  
“Do you wanna lay down?” Richie’s smile fades as his mouth opens slightly, eyes darkening.  
  
“Okay,” he says, putting the book down he’d been thumbing through and laying back against the wood of the attic floor. Eddie crawls on top of him and thumbs at the silk waist of Richie’s pants, the collar of his shirt, his jaw, his bottom lip, before sinking his thumb, now covered in glitter, into Richie’s mouth. Richie’s eyes widen and he sucks it in, teeth grazing his skin.  
  
Okay, so the location is not ideal. So they’re in Eddie’s cramped attic with one light bulb swinging above them. So Eddie’s mother is downstairs. Eddie doesn’t care. This is the moment. The moment for what, he doesn’t know, but he’s dedicated himself to figuring it out. This is the right place, even though it’s not the most romantic or beautiful or picturesque.  
  
_It’s go time._ _  
_  
Eddie takes his thumb out of Richie’s mouth, drags it across his bottom lip, resolutely does not think about the germs, the bacteria, and then leans down to kiss him, but at the last moment, he freezes. _Communication,_ he hears his own voice in his head, and he looks down at Richie, heart swelling to burst when he sees the look of adoration in his eyes.  
  
“Is this okay?” Eddie asks timidly, and Richie’s grin is luminous, shining brighter even than the stream of light coming through the window that is cutting the attic floor in half.  
  
“Yeah,” Richie gasps, nodding quickly, “yeah, doll - it’s more than okay…” Eddie looks over the other boy’s face just once more, scanning for any hesitation, any sign of doubt, and when he sees nothing staring back at him save for trust, he closes what little distance is left between them with a sigh. The kiss is sweet, innocent, but it soon builds until it is like nothing Richie had ever experienced with Eddie before - it’s hot, searing, slow and sensual. Their kisses before this had been tenuous, tension-filled moments of joy and teenage expression. This is a whole different ball game. This is sloppy and dangerous and Richie is teetering off the edge of a 100-foot cliff.  
  
Richie brings his hands up slowly to rest on Eddie’s hips, pawing at where his shirt is gathered there, and he breaks away from his boyfriend’s lips to peer up at him, a question in his eyes. “Eds, can I -- ?” Eddie nods, ducking to kiss Richie’s neck as well as conceal the blush coloring his cheeks. Richie untucks Eddie’s shirt and slips both hands under it, lightly touching his back. Eddie whines loudly, his breath warm against Richie’s throat and making the fine hairs at the nape of his neck stand on edge. Richie pulls back quickly and gives him a look that is supposed to be displeased but mostly just looks torn and a little turned on.  
  
“Darling, you’ve gotta be quiet, your mom is right downstairs...” Eddie rolls his eyes and leans down to run his teeth down the length of Richie’s neck.  
  
“It’s gonna be the same in my room,” he says, before sucking the skin into his mouth, and Richie is absolute putty.  
  
“Just — ” he pants, “be quieter, alright, doll?”  
  
“Quiet…” Eddie mutters. “I’ll show you quiet.” He sucks a mark onto the exposed skin of Richie’s chest and Richie gasps softly as his grip on Eddie’s back tightens. He works on the spot for a bit before kissing it tenderly and making his way back up the column of Richie’s throat. Eddie licks into Richie’s mouth in a move that must be practiced, it has to be practiced, and Richie thinks wildly, not for the first time, about where this boy learned to kiss like that.  
  
“Baby…” Eddie sighs into Richie’s mouth and, okay, screw teetering on the edge of the cliff. Richie is fucking free-falling. No parachute, no wings, and Eddie’s waiting arms to catch him at the bottom. Richie’s whole body seems to react to that name with that tone, hips stuttering, mouth falling open, eyes screwing shut, a strangled noise coming from somewhere within him that he did not know existed before this moment.  
  
Richie shuts his mouth and opens his eyes to see a very, very smug Eddie Kaspbrak staring down at him.  
  
“I thought we were supposed to be quiet,” he says teasingly and Richie glowers at him.  
  
“Y-You can’t just do that, babe, holy fuck.”  
  
“Huh, I didn’t realize I was dating Bill,” Eddie comments, smirking.  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“I wish,” Eddie murmurs. Richie groans.  
  
“You’re not playing fair,” Richie whines, but his eyes are light, soft. He feels completely at ease lying here with Eddie.  
  
“Oh, I’m not playing fair?” Eddie teases, playing along. “Like you were going to play so fairly.” Eddie tangles their fingers together with both hands and pins Richie to the floor. Richie’s eyes widen like saucers and they’re both pretty certain he stops breathing altogether.  
  
“How’s this? Is _this_ okay?” Richie doesn’t move, doesn’t answer, and Eddie leans down and takes his earlobe between his teeth. “Answer me, baby.” His voice is full of authority and Richie lets out a moan he wouldn’t be able to stifle if he mustered up every ounce of strength and stability he has within him, which he is now realizing cannot possibly be much.  
  
“Yeah,” Richie breathes.  
  
“Good. Don’t move,” Eddie says, releasing Richie’s hands that are above his head and pointing at them before continuing his work on Richie’s neck, as if he didn’t just tell Richie to _not move._ Holy shit, Richie realizes he needs to get some air in his lungs right fucking now, or he’s not going to survive this.  
  
At this point, Richie has lost track of how many times he’s imagined this exact situation, only with Eddie being the one writhing beneath him, arms laid up above him, debauched and completely ruined, head spinning and breath caught in his chest. Richie can’t say he very much minds the roles being reversed.  
  
Eddie feels drunk with power, with control. He knows how much Richie trusts him, how deeply that trust runs, and it’s shown plainly with Richie’s arms above him like this. He feels like this is the only time he’s ever had control of any situation, of any person, including himself. He’s going to use it to his fullest advantage.  
  
“You want this off?” Eddie asks, tugging on Richie’s shirt, and the boy beneath him nods so quickly his head might as well topple off his shoulders, and Eddie has to make a conscious effort not to laugh. He starts to unbutton Richie’s shirt and slowly slips Richie’s arms out of it. The motion is so caring and gentle and full of fondness that Richie can feel himself start to tear up. _God, get a grip, Tozier,_ he admonishes to himself. _Eddie Kaspbrak is taking your shirt off. This is the best moment of your goddamn life. Don’t blow it by fucking_ crying.  
  
Eddie leans back and sits up, popping open the buttons of his own shirt one by one while maintaining eye contact with Richie’s shining eyes and Richie feels lightheaded. The world is spinning but Eddie is not. Eddie is the only stable thing he can see and he can’t stop staring at him. He’s so beautiful, absolutely incandescent, shining from the inside out as the shirt slips over his shoulders and onto Richie’s thighs and Richie absolutely aches to touch him. He doesn’t know how much longer he can last without doing so.  
  
Eddie leans back in and kisses him, full of passion and excitement, hands all over Richie’s torso, and Richie snaps. He feels something inside of him break as as result of being so close to Eddie for the first time and not being allowed to hold him. He can’t take it anymore. He’s getting anxious without having something, without having Eddie, to tether him. As Eddie starts kissing down the center of his chest, Richie chokes out his request.  
  
“Eds. Wanna touch you.” Eddie’s head shoots up.  
  
“What do you mean?” Eddie squeaks, eyes wide.  
  
“You told me not to move, sweets, and I -- ” Richie wiggles his fingers where they’re above his head, voice insistent and a bit whiny, “wanna just hold you.”  
  
“Oh,” Eddie smiles, crawling back up Richie’s body. “Yeah, baby. That’s alright. I’d like that. C’mere.” He puts his head on Richie’s chest and Richie immediately wraps his arms around him. Richie lets out a long breath he didn’t even know he was holding as he touches Eddie’s skin. They’re both still embarrassingly worked up, but Richie doesn’t care, running his fingernails lightly over Eddie’s back, pushing the pads of his fingers into the spaces of his ribs, just touching. Richie sighs happily.  
  
“That better, ‘Chee?”  
  
“Yeah, doll. This is perfect.” Richie twists one of his hands through Eddie’s hair and kisses the crown of his head and Eddie can hear Richie’s heart pounding in his chest. A tiny little smug grin makes its way onto Eddie’s face because he knows he’s the reason why. He got under Trashmouth Tozier’s skin.  
  
“And what are you so happy about?” Richie asks.  
  
“Oh, nothing…” Eddie says breezily back, tracing random lines on Richie’s stomach. “You’re just a wreck.”  
  
“I am not a wreck!” Richie yells, not sure if he’s playing up insult as a joke or if he’s truly embarrassed.  
  
“You are a wreck. A total wreck,” Eddie smiles, burying his face into Richie’s chest. “But I think it’s nice. I like you in any state.”  
  
Richie kisses his forehead. “Yeah, yeah, I bet. You made me this way, asshole,” he comments with absolutely no heat behind it. Eddie nips at Richie’s chest lightly.  
  
“Wouldn’t have you any other way, dear.” Eddie’s hair is completely ruffled and falling over his forehead into his eyes as he peers up at Richie with this pleased, comfortable smile on his face and he looks so nose-biting cute. Richie could expire on the spot.  
  
“Was… Was all of that okay?” Eddie asks tentatively, like he’s afraid of the answer. He wonders if they got too carried away too soon.  
  
Richie smiles softly, lightly touching the skin underneath Eddie’s eye and following it up his brow. “Yeah. It was good, Eddie darling. No worries, okay? You were so good, asking me if I was okay with it all. I--” He cuts himself off with a soft smile. _I love you._ And, of course Richie loves Eddie. That has been a fact of the universe, an inevitability, for what feels like the entire course of their lives. But he can’t say it now. Not after their fight, not after the intensity of the intimacy they just shared. He worries about Eddie’s reciprocation, though it would not change his feelings for him to know that Eddie didn’t feel the same. He just can’t know that. Not right now. So he quietly thinks it again, puts the love he feels for Eddie into his own expression, his half-lidded eyes, his soft smile, his gentle fingers, and says it to himself. _I love you, Eddie Kaspbrak._ Eddie smiles back. “Thank you.”  
  
“Oh. Of course, Richie,” Eddie says, trying to put into his insistent tone that he wants all the same things Richie does, that he doesn’t regret anything that has happened tonight and hopes Richie doesn’t either, that he wants to be in this relationship with Richie. Eddie has wanted this for longer than he has allowed himself to even be aware of. Richie’s comfortability is so deeply important to him. He wants this. He wants it all.  
  
Eddie knows Richie had a big scare at Homecoming, in many ways. He and Eddie fought. As far as Richie knows, fights mean that people leave. That’s what his father taught him by packing his bags and never coming back. He needs to know that Eddie isn’t leaving. So, Eddie puts that feeling, that deep knowledge inside himself that he wants to be nowhere else but right here, in every sweep of his hands against Richie’s skin and every kiss he drops on the sharp edge of Richie’s collarbone, as much as he can without words, because he knows that is Richie’s greatest fear: people always leave.  
  
Eddie isn’t going anywhere.  
  
Eddie looks up at him, chin resting on Richie’s sternum, and he smiles brightly, wide and elastic. Richie thinks he would burn their whole damn town to the ground if it meant Eddie always smiled like that. Richie sweeps the hair out of Eddie’s face and tucks it behind his ear. “Hi.”  
  
Eddie gives him a thousand-watt smile. “Hi,” he says, reaching up to adjust the crown on Richie’s head before kissing him sweetly. Richie wonders briefly if there’s anything better than this. He wonders if this is what making it feels like.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Okay, so, hickeys? Bad idea in the Kaspbrak house.  
  
Eddie wakes up the next morning after Richie had snuck out around 5 A.M. and his mother sees him downstairs making breakfast for the two of them. She spots them immediately. Sometimes, Eddie wonders how she does it.  
  
“Eddie Bear! Your neck!” She cries, rushing over to him to examine the marks. “You must’ve contracted some rare disease, or a horrible rash of some kind!”  
  
Eddie, for his benefit, does not play dumb when he freaks out and runs to the bathroom mirror. He genuinely just forgot they were there. _Oh,_ he thinks when he sees them. _Richie._  
  
“I think I’ll be fine, Mommy, really,” Eddie assures, but Sonia just shakes her head.  
  
“Go get dressed and pack your medicine. We’re going to the hospital.” Eddie’s eyes bulge out of his head.  
  
“No, no, Mom, please. Please don’t take me to the hospital,” he begs, memories from his last visit rushing to his mind. “I hate the hospital, everyone’s so scared and there’s so many germs and everyone’s always bleeding all over the place and vomiting everywhere. It’s horrible.”  
  
She turns on her heel, heading up the stairs. “I’m getting dressed. I expect to see you ready to go in ten minutes.”  
  
“But I haven’t even eaten breakfast!” He shouts, hoping by some miracle that will get him out of this.  
  
“We’ll pick up something on the way,” she calls back, and slams the door shut the her bedroom. Eddie slumps against the bathroom sink and glares at his own reflection in the window above it.  
  
“Richie Tozier, I’m gonna fucking kill you.”  
  
  
  
In school on Monday, Eddie spots Richie already chatting with the others in their group by the bike rack. Eddie shoots daggers at him from a thousand feet away. He points at him as he gets closer and shouts, “You!” Richie turns around and when he spots him in the crowd and smiles brightly, but it fades when he sees the expression on Eddie’s face.  
  
“Ruh roh,” Richie says, using a Scooby Doo Voice. “I’m in trouble.”  
  
“Yes, you certainly fucking are,” Eddie says, coming up to him and slapping him upside the head lightly. Richie dramatizes the action and holds his head, commenting on how much it hurt. “Oh, come on, Tozier. You know what you did.”  
  
“Wait, hold on,” Richie pauses his charade and actually does think very hard on what he could’ve done to hurt Eddie between leaving him happy and sleepy at 5:12 A.M. Saturday morning until now. He frowns, looking back at Eddie. “I’m honestly coming up empty, Eds. Can I just give you a blanket apology for all the -- woah! Look at your neck! It looks like a vampire did a terrible job at sucking your blood and had to try several times!”  
  
The others laugh and Eddie’s glare intensifies. “Yeah. It does look like that. Know what it looked like to my mom? An infection, a rash and a rare disease all wrapped up in one. She took me to the hospital.” They all fall silent, knowing what the hospital means for Eddie: one long panic attack.  
  
“Oh,” Richie says, voice small. He’s not sure if he can take the blame in front of the group, seeing as they haven’t told all of them they’re officially dating yet. “I’m sorry that you had to go to the hospital. Were you alright?”  
  
“I survived...” Eddie says vaguely. “With a stress test from the doctor to see if my blood pressure being so off-the-charts was early signs of hypertension. Nope! Turns out that I just had such an intense panic attack from being there that my blood pressure rose. Oh! And to top it all off, they told my mom my lungs are perfectly healthy and my lack of oxygen intake is from a panic disorder and she pitched a fit at them, telling them they were hacks and didn’t know what they were talking about.” They all stare at Eddie, unable to answer. “Oh, yeah, and I have a panic disorder.”  
  
“Eddie…” Richie tries, coming closer, but Eddie takes a step back. It’s childish, he knows, to blame Richie for this. Richie’s probably got just as many marks under an inch deep of Jess’ concealer right now; Eddie knows he did his fair share of marking skin that night. But he’s still shell-shocked from the hospital and he needs something to blame, anything, and blaming his mother would be so much more stressful to live with for him, so he chooses Richie as his target. But Richie looks absolutely heartbroken when Eddie pulls away from his touch, and, no, that won’t do. He may not be able to live with being angry with his mother, but being angry with Richie? Not a great alternative as it turns out.  
  
He moves closer and tenderly touches his hand to Richie’s shoulder, flattening the collar of his bright orange floral shirt and poking at his neck. Richie hisses and the group collectively stifles a laugh.  
  
“Can I…?” Richie asks quietly to Eddie, trailing off at the end, and Eddie rolls his eyes.  
  
“Go ahead. Seems like the secret’s out, anyway.”  
  
Richie turns to the group, a shit-eating grin on his face. “I snagged Eds. Results are in - he’s a better lay than even his mom.”  
  
“Seriously?” Eddie asks. “Not even a little bit of discretion?”  
  
“Why would I be discreet when I’ve got you, sweet cheeks?” Richie shrugs, turning back to Eddie and pinching one of his cheeks. Eddie smiles, batting him away.  
  
“We know, Richie,” Stanley says. Richie whirls around and Eddie’s eyes widen to a comically large state.  
  
“What do you mean you know?” Eddie squeals, his voice more high-pitched than any of them have heard since before puberty.  
  
“Do you think it’s n-not…-- obvious?” Bill asks tenderly. Eddie’s eyes widen.  
  
“Bill!” But Richie just laughs raucously, leaning on the bicycle rack for support, nearly falling over with the force of his laughter. After a while of Eddie staring at him disapprovingly, hands on his hips, Richie composes himself and walks over to Beverly, putting a hand on her shoulder.   
  
“Beverly, I hope you can understand that my heart belongs to Eds; I don’t want you to be too crushed I’m off the market now,” he says, voice grave and serious.   
  
“Oh, I think I can handle it,” Beverly responds, deadpan.   
  
“I can’t get over this, guys,” Eddie interjects, moaning. “I thought we were being completely aloof.” Ben gives him a pointed look.  
  
“Really? Sugar Daddy?” The entire group erupts into a fit when Ben brings up what Richie said at the fair over the summer.  
  
“Why remind us of that, Ben?” Beverly whines, her hand covering her eyes.  
  
“If I have to suffer -- !” Ben begins, but he’s cut off by Eddie, who looks like he’s close to tears.  
  
“But still, why didn’t you guys say anything?” he whispers, sounding unbelievably small, eyes darting frantically about the group.   
  
Ben puts a hand on his shoulder, voice gentle and full of mirth. “Because, Eddie, that would be weird.”   
  
“Plus, why w-would we say anything? I-It doesn’t b-b-bother us any,” Bill smiles, and Stanley nods surely. Eddie feels tears immediately fill his eyes looking at Bill and he sniffs, violently wiping at his eyes.  
  
“Aw, cute, Eds, you’re crying,” Richie says, voice thick with his own unshed tears, shoving Eddie lightly. Eddie shoves him back, though much harder, and it sends him laughing through his tears into the bike rack.   
  
“So are you! Don’t pretend like you’re not!” Eddie cries, a tear escaping down his cheek that he immediately wipes away.  
  
“You wish I was crying, on my back -- ” A chorus of groans cut Richie off.  
  
“No!” Ben groans.  
  
“Nope! This is not how it’s going to be, I will call the police! Don’t test me, I’ll do it!” Stanley warns. “If Bill and I can control ourselves, so can you!”   
  
“Guys, don’t do this to us, we’re on your side,” Beverly moans.  
  
“Yeah, come on, Richie, keep it PG,” Eddie reprimands and they all swivel to face him.  
  
“You’re the one dating him!” Ben accuses.   
  
“Exactly! How do you think I feel?”  
  
“I can’t stop thinking about how you feel,” Richie leers, eyes full of mirth but the set of his mouth serious.  
  
“I’m going to murder you a thousand times,” Eddie promises, before looking away and muttering to Richie, “...That was pretty cute though.”  
  
Richie takes his backpack off the ground as the bell rings and swings it onto one shoulder without looking at Eddie. “You’re cuter.”  
  
Eddie’s breath starts to come faster as he walks away, a sway in his hips that’s confident and alluring and absolutely more than Eddie can take. Eddie reaches for his inhaler even though a doctor so plainly told him the truth over the weekend, and he briefly wonders if that impulse will ever entirely go away, if he will ever stop feeling like a trained circus monkey performing tricks to stay sick. Beverly slips an arm around his waist.  
  
“C’mon, hon, let’s go to class,” she says. Her voice is a comfort through the haze of anxiety, as it always is, always was, and always will be. He nods and forces himself to walk. He doesn’t know why Richie affects him so deeply, but he can promise that he doesn’t like it.  
  
  
Beverly notices that Eddie cannot stop fidgeting beside her when she peeks over at him as Mr. Holdstomes drones on and on about the Louisiana Purchase. Not a single person in the classroom is listening to the elderly teacher, least of all Beverly, who is so consumed with worry for her friend that she hasn’t even been pretending to care about what the man has been saying for the past half hour. She puts her hand carefully over Eddie’s where she sees it shaking on his knee and he jolts out of his stupor, turning to face her with wide eyes, and he flips his hand beneath hers so that he can link their fingers together.  
  
“You okay, Eds?” she whispers with a smile, and Eddie’s eyes flicker nervously to Mr. Holdstomes, whose back is now to the class as he scrawls something on the chalkboard that not a single student in the room plans on writing down. “Oh, he’s lost to the world - probably doesn’t even have his hearing aid on...” Eddie smiles a bit but still does not look convinced. “Okay,” she says, getting to her feet and pulling him with her. “Mr. H? Eddie doesn’t feel well, I’m going to bring him to the nurse…”  
  
“Beverly!” he hisses, but Mr. Holdstomes nods and grunts without even looking behind him as the pair of teenagers tear out into the hall.  
  
“There, that’s better…” Beverly sighs, grinning mischievously, and she tugs on Eddie’s hand gently, pulling him down the hall and into the closest stairwell. “Now, what’s eatin’ at you, hon?” She bumps her shoulder against his once they’ve taken seats on the steps, and he looks down at their intertwined hands, toying with the anchor ring on her finger.  
  
“I can’t stop thinking.”  
  
“About?” Beverly prompts, arching her brow, and Eddie sighs, an incriminating blush burning his freckled cheeks.  
  
“Richie,” he answers, and it takes every ounce of willpower that Beverly has not to squeal.  
  
“Oh, very sweet, Eds,” she coos. “I must say, we’ve all been waiting so long for you two to get a clue, that it’s a little overwhelming now that you have… Bill and I weren’t sure after the diner, but we had our high hopes and assumptions.”  
  
“You think it’s overwhelming for you?” Eddie scoffs with a small smile, still flushed slightly pink. “Think how I feel.” He pauses and then looks at her carefully. “Bev, can I tell you something?”  
  
“Anything, honey. Always. You know that,” she promises, unraveling their hands to offer him her pinky, and he hooks his own around it, shaking their hands curtly. “Spill those beans, Kaspbrak. I’m all ears…”  
  
Eddie sighs. “Something happened.”  
  
“Oh?” Beverly’s brow furrows, and Eddie nods.  
  
“Yeah… Homecoming night.”  
  
“Okay…” Beverly starts, and then she blinks. “Oh. Oh, you - something. Eds, did you...? Did you and Richie -- ?” she asks carefully, and when Eddie’s eyes widen like saucers, she has to bite back a loving laugh.  
  
“What? You mean -- ? _No,”_ he squeaks, blushing even more than he had previously, and Beverly cannot stop herself from chuckling. “No, not that. We just -- we just kissed, Bev.” Beverly nods, and she can’t quite place why she’s so shocked by that. Sure, she always plays around with Eddie, calling him sweet and innocent, but she knows deep down that he isn’t the delicate little bird his mother has always forced him to be, and she knows that Eddie knows Beverly doesn’t see him that way either, that she only says those things to lighten their weight on him.  
  
“Well, we could kinda tell by the enormous hickeys on your neck, but…”  
  
“Shut up!” Eddie squeals, shoving her playfully and covering his neck self-consciously. “But, yeah… We kissed… A lot.” Eddie doesn’t miss the smirk that stretches across his friend’s face.  
  
“Yeah?” Beverly nudges him playfully, and he nudges her back.  
  
“Shut up,” he whines, hiding his face in his hands. “I’m telling you this because I trust you more than anyone and you’re mocking me,” he accuses, laughter in his own voice, and she kisses the top of his head when he rests it on her shoulder, still with his hands over his face.  
  
“I’m glad you trust me, Eds,” she says. “So, so glad. And I hope you know I’d never betray that,” she promises, and he nods against her shoulder. “So,” she sings, “is Tozier actually a good kisser or is he all bullshit as usual?”  
  
“Well, I mean… Yeah,” Eddie starts bashfully. “I don’t really have anyone to compare him to,” he shrugs and Beverly gasps, clutching her chest.  
  
“Eddie Kaspbrak, I am hurt that you don’t even remember our spin the bottle kiss!” she teases, wiping away a nonexistent tear, and Eddie shakes his head at her.  
  
“You’ve been spending way too much time with Richie,” Eddie accuses with a chuckle.  
  
“Not as much as you,” Beverly sings, wiggling her eyebrows at him, but then she suddenly grows very serious. “Did you want to? He wasn’t pushy, right? So help me, God, I will murder him if -- ”  
  
“No, Beverly,” Eddie swears, shaking his head and looking her right in the eye. “I wanted to, believe me. He wasn’t pushy at all. And I made sure everything was okay with him, too,” he adds, knowing that will make her happy, and it does. She beams proudly at him and squeezes his shoulder. “He was… very sweet. Very careful,” he insists, and Beverly blinks.   
  
“Careful? We are talking about Richie here, right?” she asks, mildly serious, and Eddie rolls his eyes, laughing despite himself.  
  
“Yes, Beverly.”  
  
“Richard Tozier? _Richie?”_  
  
“The one and only,” Eddie smiles and Beverly nods slowly.  
  
“Wow,” she breathes. “I wasn’t sure if he had it in him. I don’t think that boy’s been careful about anything a day in his life,” she admits, propping her chin on the heel of her hand to peer at Eddie knowingly. “But he’s been so careful about you and that’s just more proof he’s got it fuckin’ bad...”  
  
“Oh, my God,” Eddie groans, letting his head fall into his hands, his fingers knotting in his hair.  
  
“And you’ve got it bad, too,” she adds, jabbing his side playfully.  
  
“I regret choosing you as my confidant,” Eddie says, voice muffled.  
  
“No, you don’t,” she smiles, wrapping her arm around him in a hug.  
  
Eddie tucks his arm around her as well and ducks his head so it fits underneath her chin. He realizes he’s been monopolizing the conversation and then gets a mischievous grin on his face.  
  
“So…” he starts, voice deceptively light, “any folks for you on the horizon?”  
  
She shoves him hard into the wall and he laughs as he rubs at his slightly bruised shoulder. “You’re a shithead, you know that? Spending too much time with Shithead #2, that’s what I think…”  
  
“Excuse me, I think in terms of ranking, I am absolutely the #2 shithead,” Eddie says, attempting seriousness but he laughs instead. “But seriously, do you have anyone on the radar? Any cute boys I’ve somehow missed? Any cute girls I’ve definitely missed?”  
  
Beverly laughs gently and shakes her head, mouth opening and then closing again on an answer she isn’t sure how to give. “I’m… I’m not sure. Is maybe a viable answer?”  
  
“Anything’s viable, Bev. Is something up?” Eddie asks worriedly, frowning. “Is it Bill again?”   
  
“Ha! No. That’s… That was good while we had it and I’m glad we ended it when we did. It definitely preserved the friendship.” Beverly shakes her head as she considers what might’ve happened if she and Bill hadn’t broken up last spring. “I don’t wanna know who I’d be without him.”  
  
“I don’t think any of us do,” Eddie responds, voice just as serious and grave as Beverly’s. He turns to face her and takes her hands in his. She looks at him trepidatiously. “Look, Bev, I know I can be… I dunno, self-absorbed.” She starts to shake her head, but he cuts off her protest. “No, I know I am. My mom put me in a bubble and… whatever, I don’t wanna make excuses. The point is, I can be selfish. But I don’t want you to ever think that that means you can’t talk to me.”  
  
“Eddie…” Beverly breathes, eyebrows screwing in. “I never think that I can’t talk to you. You’re my best friend - I tell you the most. Where is this coming from?”  
  
“I dunno,” Eddie shrugs. “Mom stuff. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is…” Beverly is shaking her head so vehemently that Eddie trails off into nothing.  
  
“It does matter, Eddie. You matter. Your shit matters just as much as mine. We’re on the same level; there’s no battle for status with us like there is at home, okay? If I can trust you, then you can trust me.”   
  
Eddie nods violently and then pitches himself at Beverly, wrapping his arms around her tightly. She chuckles and slowly does the same. “I love you, Beverly. I-I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said all that, I’m just… insecure, I guess. About myself and if my mom changed me so much that I can’t be who I really am because of it.”  
  
Beverly shakes her head and then kisses Eddie’s temple. “You were always you. Always will be. She can’t change what you don’t let her.”  
  
Eddie smiles and lets that sink in. Perhaps the changes he’s seen in his personality, anger and submission coming and going like the tides, the anxiety, they’re all a part of him regardless of his mother’s influence. Eddie pulls back and sniffs, wiping at his face with his shirt sleeve. “Thanks, Bev.”   
  
“Anytime, shortstack.” Eddie gasps sharply with a shocked smile and pushes her.  
  
“Hey!” he cries, but they’re both laughing. There’s a lull in the conversation until Eddie pipes up again. “So… Who’s the crush?”   
  
“God, Richie has turned you into a gossip,” she laments, shaking her head with a chuckle.  
  
“He has not!” Eddie smiles proudly. “I was always a gossip. He got it from me, if anything.”  
  
“God!” Beverly laughs shrilly. “You’re a fucking menace!”  
  
“If it gets you to tell me about your crush, I’ll be anything you want me to be!” Eddie pleads, pouting dramatically. Beverly shakes her head at him with a smile. Man, he and Rich really do spend all their time together if they’re starting to meld personalities.  
  
“I want you to be you, hon,” she says, tucking his head under her arm and pressing her knuckles lightly into the crowd of his head. He struggles just as half-heartedly until she slings the arm around his neck and pulls him close, tipping her head against his. “It’s not so much as a crush as much as a fascination.”  
  
“Ooh, sounds creepy,” Eddie comments jokingly. “I’m in.”  
  
“Fuck off, Trashmouth,” she smirks, knowing that will shut him up quickly. It works and he gasps with great insult and wounded pride, and shuts his mouth. “I met her at Homecoming. She’s just… she’s so interesting, you know? I’ve asked around about her, and she’s on the cheerleading squad, but she gets better grades than Richie and I do. She skipped a grade! She’s a sophomore like us, but she’s a year younger. I don’t know when she skipped, but I heard her telling a friend how she couldn’t go see some R rated movie with her because she’s only 15. It was so cute - like she didn’t even think of sneaking in. I wanna marry her,” Beverly sighs forlornly.   
  
“So what’s the problem?” Eddie asks.  
  
“There’s two. One, she barely knows my name. And two, she has a boyfriend.”   
  
“Yikes. One of those problems is not like the other,” Eddie says with a considering frown. “How do you know about the boyfriend?”  
  
“Every time I hear her name, it’s in conjunction with someone named ‘Nick,’ whoever that is…” Beverly groans, dropping her head in her hands.  
  
“It could be a friend!” Eddie tries, rubbing her back soothingly.  
  
“Could be. I’m not sure. I just wish I could find an excuse to talk to her, you know? I went up to her at the Homecoming Dance because she was going to drink the Death Punch -- ” Eddie groans in sympathy and Beverly laughs. “ -- and I wanted to warn her. She’s so fucking cute, Eds. She’s got this really curly hair and she’s short and compact and sweet as hell and I just wanna put her in my pocket. What the fuck is wrong with me?”  
  
“Nothin’, Bevs. You’ve just got a big ol’ crush.”   
  
“Ugh! That’s worse than there being something wrong with me, Eds!” Beverly groans loudly. Eddie laughs and kisses her curls.  
  
“We’ll figure it out. Okay? Do you know her full name? Eddie and Beverly, Super Spies on the case.”  
  
“Kate. Katherine Thackeray,” she says, barely registering how much like Richie he sounds. It’s oddly comforting - like getting a two-for-one deal.   
  
“We’re gonna figure this out, Bev. I bet you have a chance.” She gives him a disbelieving look.  
  
“What makes you think that?” He pulls her into his side and brings them both to their feet with a chuckle.  
  
“Because you’re Beverly Marsh,” he says, as if this explains it. To him, it does.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“Bill,” Richie insists for the third time that minute. “We kiss. On the mouth.”  
  
“Oh, my God,” Bill laughs. They’re lounging at the Barrens on a patch of grass watching dead leaves fall from the trees and trying to catch them while still sitting down as Richie rambles on and on like a dam being let loose. When Richie had asked Bill that same day if he wanted to go to the Barrens with him after school, Bill had laughed and agreed, knowing exactly what was coming. And, oh, he was right.  
  
“No, Billy Boy, you don’t seem to get it,” Richie explains with a put upon sigh, grasping at the air as a yellow, deadened leaf flutters to the ground. “Our mouths touch each other’s. It’s amazing.”  
  
“I’m sure it is, buddy, Eddie’s a swell g-g-guy!” Richie rounds on him with an affronted gasp, giving up on the leaf, and Bill giggles at his antics.  
  
“Swell? Try incredible, lovely, absolutely heart-stoppingly _beautiful,”_ Richie sighs, flopping back onto the soft earth with incredible dramatics and a lack of grace only Richie Tozier is capable of. His arms are spread out, hitting Bill’s thigh, and Richie gropes blindly for Bill’s hand until he finds it, linking their fingers together. “We do this, too.”  
  
“Hold hands?”  
  
“Yeah...” Richie breathes dreamily, staring up at the clouds as the slowly pass by. “It’s awesome.”  
  
“You like holding h-hands, Rich?” Bill asks mildly, trying to keep the smile out of his voice when he remembers Richie proclaiming exactly that almost a whole year ago in his living room. Bill is truly enjoying this conversation; it’s not often anyone sees the soft and vulnerable side of Richie Tozier he so criminally shields from most of the world at large, and Bill isn’t about to squander his chance at seeing it by being crass or pushing Richie away from it.  
  
“Love it. Sometimes, I think it’s nicer than when we kiss. Which is on the mouth, by the way.” Richie rolls his head in the moss and looks over at Bill. “You do believe me, right? Do I need to prove myself? Get Eds down here and lay one on him right in front of you?”  
  
“No need. I’ve l-literally seen you kiss before. Plus, I always had faith you’d pull it together ev-v-ventually, Rich,” Bill smiles down at him, squeezing Richie’s hand lightly. Richie smiles back at him sunnily, looking back at the sky.  
  
“He lets me hold his hand, Billy Boy,” Richie grins, giggling a bit. “I feel like a million bucks.”  
  
“A million, huh?”  
  
“Yeah, totally. It’s like… I feel like I’m floating sometimes, when I’m with him. I just wanna make him happy,” Richie says, smiling without abandon. Bill knows if Richie were talking to anyone else, this conversation would go a lot differently, a lot more crassly, but he’s just glad Richie’s soft side is being pulled out at all.  
  
“I’ve never seen you this happy, pal,” Bill insists, voice soft and delicate as always. And with those words, Richie suddenly feels a weight slam down on his chest. Bill is right. He has never been this happy. Which means something is bound to go wrong. This is Richie Tozier: Fuck-Up Extraordinaire they’re talking about. He’s been told since the ripe old age of six that he is at fault for everything that goes wrong around him: his father leaving, his mother’s drinking, Jess’ attitude, his own defense mechanisms that shine through when he’s scared or nervous or unsure of what to do. And Richie knows his best defense against any unwanted emotion is Trashmouth, so that’s who he digs out. He brushes off the dust from its edges, coated on from being hidden for most of the last few months successfully, and slips on the mask like a second skin.  
  
“Yeah, well, Eddie’s mom’s a good lay. I’m glowing,” he snarks, smirking up at the sky. He doesn’t even have to look over to see that Bill is frowning now.  
  
“Beep beep, Richie!” he scolds. Richie stifles a wince, knowing how few times Bill has pulled out that phrase to get him to stop the tirades he goes on.  
  
“What!”  
  
“You’re d-d-d-dating him now, Rich, you can’t keep making jokes about fucking his m-mom.”  
  
“Why not?” Richie asks, voice light, but the raise of his eyebrow and the set of his shoulders against the earth spells danger.  
  
“Must I exp-plain? Because it’s fucking weird,” Bill chides, and Richie scoffs, rolling his head in the opposite direction of Bill, untangling their fingers to raise himself up to lean on his palms, posture careless and angry.  
  
“He thinks it’s funny!” Richie defends. “It’s not like you’re the one fucking dating him.”  
  
“No, I’m not,” Bill says slowly, burning a hole in the back of Richie’s head with how hard he’s glaring at him. “But I have known him just as long as you have, Trashmouth, and I know for a f-f-fact that he hates it. And his m-mom, most of the time…”  
  
Richie snorts derisively. “He said that?”  
  
“He s-s-s-says that every time you make those j-jokes, Richie!” Bill cries, arms flapping a bit in exasperation. _Bill’s going to leave,_ Richie thinks morosely. _Everyone always does._ So instead of biting out another angry, trashmouthed comment, he pushes aside the mask for a moment and really thinks. And it barely takes a moment before he can see Eddie’s pinched face every single time Richie jokes about screwing his mom. He remembers a multitude of occasions where he’s done it, over and over since they were kids, and every time Richie has joked about fucking Sonia Kaspbrak, fucking anyone, really, Eddie has this dark, pained, disgusted look that comes across his face every time. Richie had just assumed it was because Eddie couldn’t imagine Richie fucking anyone, tried to reason away why he would always look so damn hurt whenever Richie made jokes in that vein. But now that they’re dating, really, undeniably together, Richie thinks back to all of those times and he’s suddenly overcome with guilt. How did he not see it? Eddie liked him the whole time, even back when they were kids. He feels like a fucking moron.  
  
But then he realizes just how many of those jokes involved Eddie’s mother, and is suddenly hit with the memory of Eddie telling Richie just how scared he is of his mother finding out about his sexuality, that he’s afraid she’ll send him away. And Richie doesn’t just feel stupid, he feels disgusted with himself. He puts back on the Trashmouth mask to avoid having that feeling in front of someone else. Even kind, gentle, Bill, his very best friend, would leave him if he knew the extent of the hurt he’s caused Eddie all these years. So he turns to Bill and nods resolutely.  
  
“Okay. I’ll break up with her.” Bill rolls his eyes and scoffs at Richie. “She’ll be heartbroken, but anything’s worth it for my Eddie Spaghetti.”  
  
Bill sighs, looking heavenward, but then he looks back at Richie. His eyes are narrowed but there’s a smile peeking out and the Trashmouth exterior melts away completely. He doesn’t scramble to reach for it when it goes. “You really like him, don’t you, Tozier?”  
  
_I love him,_ Richie thinks, the voice inside him sound and true, ringing within him with absolute clarity. He’s never been more sure of anything in his life: he is in love with Eddie Kaspbrak. But he wants Eddie to be the first person to know that fact, even if it takes Richie his whole fucking life to tell him.  
  
“Yeah, Billiam. I really do.” He smiles at Bill, his tender and true smile, the one he reserves solely for his six closest friends, and lays back down. He looks back up at the sky and points. “Doesn’t that cloud kinda look like a dick?”  
  
“What? No,” Bill sighs, squinting. “Your eyes must really be g-g-going. It looks k-kinda like a lowercase e, but definitely not a dick. Where the fuck are you getting dick fr-from?” Richie smiles and thinks to the e he made in glow-in-the-dark stars with sticky putty and his mother’s step ladder at age six. He’d almost fallen nearly a hundred times, but he’d done it, he’d covered his whole ceiling in constellations, all very real except for the large _e_ in the middle. He had wanted to be an astronomer when he grew up at that age, wanted to escape the world and sail among the planets and stars and vacuous space. He wanted to be important, all those numbers and planting of flags. But he’d given up on that dream when Jess told him he’d never be able to make it out of Derry. _You’ll rot here,_ she promised at age 11, _like a dead body. And when your old bones disintegrate into dust, no one will even remember you were here at all. You’re not special, Toad._ And he believed her - Richie Tozier is nothing special. But every time he looks up at his ceiling and sees the _e_ , he remembers his friends, his love for Eddie Kaspbrak, now cemented in concrete truth, and he can’t help but think that maybe his sister was wrong. Maybe you can be special even if you aren’t in the history books. Maybe you can be important if you’re important to somebody else.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“Okay, hon, you’re gonna do great,” Beverly says as they approach Richie’s house. They’re on their way so Beverly can drop Eddie off and they can have their second date. Richie calls it their ‘first alone date’ because, while Homecoming was incredible and an absolute dream for the most part, there were also 250 other kids crammed into the gym that they had to worry about. This time it was just going to be him and Richie, and Eddie is freaking out all over again. Beverly almost laughs at how it feels nearly emotionally identical to getting Eddie ready for the dance.   
  
“What are you, my mom?”  
  
“Eugh,” Beverly groans, her face twisting up in mild disgust. “No, thank you.”  
  
Eddie levels her a look. “Bev, come on.”  
  
“Sorry,” she apologizes with a bit laughter in her voice, hooking an arm around Eddie’s neck. “You know I will never like the woman, though. Not after she lied to you for so long about your medication. And the way she treats you...”   
  
“Yeah, well…” Eddie trails off, looking over into the hedges of the Tozier house. They stop before heading up the steps.   
  
“Look, Eds, no fear, alright?” Beverly says, hooking her other arm around Eddie’s neck. He does the same, braiding their arms together. “Richie adores the shit out of you and he’s gonna treat you right.”   
  
“You think?” Eddie asks, voice timid and unsure.  
  
“Yeah. I’m sure,” she says with a smile that’s so confident, Eddie can’t help but feel reassured. “Plus, you’re a knockout. I did a bangup job if I do say so myself.” Eddie’s wearing denim dungarees over his favorite t-shirt, a Bruce Springsteen shirt from his father that is thin and worn and has a hole in the sleeve. Beverly raised her eyebrows when she saw it, asked if he really wanted to wear it and he’d simply smiled and said, “Yeah. I think he’ll like it.”  
  
“Ha. Yeah, maybe I look okay, Bev, but what am I gonna say? It’s going to be just us there! At Homecoming, everyone was there and helping to take the pressure off! What do I say? What if I… What if I mess up?”  
  
“Oh, Eddie,” she sighs with a smile, “you’re not going to mess up. You know why? Because there’s nothing to mess up. It’s just you two hanging out! You’ve done it before!” Eddie remembers reading comics in his attic at age eight, Richie practicing Voices with him after school in his bedroom at age ten. They have been doing this for a long time.  
  
“Maybe dating won’t be as hard as I thought…” he mumbles.  
  
“Maybe it won’t be because of who you’re going on dates with, lugnut,” she says fondly, reaching up and gripping his head, tossing it from side to side.  
  
“Hey, hey! Watch it! You’re gonna mess up my hair!” he says, pawing at her. She laughs as they untangle and go up the steps. He takes a deep breath and suddenly reaches for his inhaler.  
  
“Did you bring it?” she asks. He shakes his head.  
  
“It’s fake, anyway. Don’t really need it.” She hums and grabs his hand.  
  
“You’ll be okay, buddy. It’s gonna be fine. You’ll have fun. Know why?” He looks over. “Because it’s Richie.”  
  
Eddie looks back at the old wooden door and smiles, nodding resolutely and ringing the doorbell. “No fear,” he says under his breath. And then he looks at Beverly with a wild look in his eyes.  
  
“You’ve gotta go,” he says.  
  
“What?” Beverly laughs. “I thought I was going to give him the whole have him home by nine speech?”  
  
“Yeah, but then he’d know that you helped me tonight. Go! Go!” He says, quickly pushing her away, and she goes tripping down the stairs of the front porch and onto the sidewalk, laughing.  
  
“Alright, ya freak, I’m goin’. Call me tomorrow and let me know how it -- ”  
  
“I will! Bye, Bevs, thanks a mil!”  
  
“Uh huh,” she says amusedly, walking away.  
  
Upstairs, Richie is shooing Bill out the window. “Bill, you gotta go!”  
  
“What? Why?” Bill asks, bewildered as Richie throws open the window.  
  
“Because Eddie might want to come up here for something!”  
  
“But that’s not part of the p-p-plan,” Bill asserts, trying to stand his ground, but Richie is full-on pushing him towards the window and eventually he relents. “Fine, Tozier. But you o-owe me.”  
  
“I already owe you for this, Big Bill. Thanks for all the help brainstorming!” Richie shouts as Bill climbs out the window, but Bill turns back to him when he says that.  
  
“B-B-Buddy, you came up with m-most of this night on your own. Don’t sell yourself short.” Richie smiles softly for a moment, tilting his head in gratitude, and then begins shooing him.  
  
“Alright, alright. Out, out.”  
  
When Bill scales the side of the house and jumps down, he turns to find Beverly with her hip cocked and her arms crossed. “Hey, cutie.”  
  
“Hey, Beverly,” Bill responds with a smile. “You walk Eds here?”  
  
“Yeah,” she responds. “He kicked me to the curb.”  
  
“Same here!” Bill laughs. He holds out his hand. “You wanna go to the B-B-Barrens?”  
  
Beverly smiles and takes his hand, intertwining their fingers. “Sounds good, Billy. Let’s go watch the sun set.” They walk off together down the street as Richie bounds down the stairs, breathing heavily.   
  
“Okay,” he whispers to himself from behind the front door. “You can do this, Tozier. Don’t fuck it up.” He puts on a smile, wider than anything that’s ever played over his expression in his life, as he opens the door to face Eddie.  
  
“Hey,” Eddie says, putting on his own smile as the door opens, wiping away his anxious expression.  
  
“Hey, cutie,” Richie responds, pulling him in for a hug. It’s awkward at first, Richie leaning over the threshold at an odd angle, but then Eddie takes a step forward and Richie fixes his posture and it’s nice. It’s really nice. They pull away and suddenly don’t feel as nervous as they were before.  
  
“You wanna go?” Eddie asks, hooking his thumb over his shoulder. “Or were you planning on wining and dining me from House Tozier?”  
  
Richie gives him an easy grin, hooking his arm over Eddie’s shoulders. “No, I have a master plan, Eds. C’mon.” Richie walks them to his truck and opens the door for Eddie, bowing.  
  
“Oh, thank you, Sir Tozier,” Eddie giggles.  
  
“Of course, My Liege.” Richie closes the door and rounds the car, hopping up into seat and attempts to start it. It takes fifteen tries before Richie gives a frustrated shout.  
  
“Don’t give up, baby, c’mon,” Eddie encourages, rubbing his back. “You know Cherry Bomb is a fickle creature. Put some muscle into it!”   
  
Richie laughs and tries again. “C’mon, baby… You’re the main event here…” Richie whispers to the truck. He rubs the steering wheel and Cherry Bomb roars to life. “Ah! We’re in business!”  
  
“Go Cherry Bomb!” Eddie cries, punching the air. “Now, where are we going?”  
  
“You’ll see,” Richie sings. Eddie gives him a flat look.  
  
“Oh, no. No. You know how much I hate surprises.”  
  
“It’s not far, don’t be a baby about it,” Richie laughs, starting down the road and grabbing at Eddie’s fingers, resting their joined hands on the gearshift so he can switch gears when necessary.  
  
They pull into the sandlot and park the truck in the middle of the field.  
  
“Why are we — ”   
  
“Mystery is the food of love, darling,” Richie says, killing the engine and reaching into the back. He pulls out a host of blankets and pillows, dragging them into the front seat and out of the car. He walks them around the truck and hoists them into the bed. When Eddie hops out and comes around, Richie gestures to the bed of the car.  
  
“Make it comfy, babe! I have one more thing to go get,” Richie says excitedly, rounding the car and jumping into the back. He grabs the champagne and the radio and carefully comes back around. He lifts them up into the air when he makes eye contact with Eddie from where he’s in the bed of the truck making a nest. “Fun stuff!”  
  
“Oh! Yeah, fun stuff!” Eddie crows. He grabs the ice bucket the champagne is in and the radio and puts them down before grabbing Richie’s hand and helping him up. They settle into the blankets Richie brought and Eddie giggles.  
  
“What?” Richie asks.  
  
“You just brought, like, fifteen blankets,” Eddie laughs. Richie throws his hands up into the air as he settles into Eddie’s arms.  
  
“What?! It’s cold!” Richie cries. “Outside dates in October were hard to plan, and I didn’t think either of us were too keen on being in our houses.”  
  
“No, no, it’s perfect. Really,” Eddie insists, “truly perfect. But…”  
  
“What now?” Richie looks up, an eyebrow raised.  
  
“There’s no glasses. For the champagne, there’s no glasses.”  
  
“I figured they’d break in transit. And it’s not like we haven’t swapped spit before…”   
  
“Ew,” Eddie grimaces. “Way to make kissing sound as disgusting as possible, Richie.”   
  
Richie laughs. “Is that okay? That there’s no glasses? I guess we can drive back and I can sneak some past my mom…”  
  
“No, that’s-that’s okay, babe. I’ll be fine without them, swear.” Eddie smiles at the stars. “Thanks for offering though.”  
  
“Yeah, of course. I have a cork popper, though…” Richie says, sitting up and fishing around his pocket, procuring a bottle opener. “A-ha! Do you wanna do it now?”   
  
“Music first. Wanna hear what tunes you picked out for our second date,” Eddie says, fiddling with the stereo and pressing PLAY. _Say You, Say Me_ by Lionel Richie starts playing and Eddie bursts out laughing. “I wonder why you chose a Lionel Richie song.”  
  
“Okay, don’t trash the trashmouth. It fits,” Richie explains vaguely. “Now, champagne.”  
  
“Champagne, Lionel Richie, the bed of Cherry Bomb under the stars? My, my, darling, it seems like tonight’s the night,” Eddie sighs, a playful smile spreading across his lips.   
  
“Oh, Eddie! Take me!” Richie cries, falling across Eddie’s lap. “I’m yours!”   
  
“You’re a nerd,” Eddie laughs. “Come on, open ‘er up.”   
  
_Say you, say me, it’s for always_ _  
__That's the way it should be_ _  
__Say you, say me, say it together_ _  
__Naturally_ _  
_  
Richie smiles at Eddie, incredibly glad he’s being so playful and fun tonight, and grabs the champagne from the bucket. He attempts to pop the cork, but, despite his efforts, it snaps in the bottle and breaks. Richie lets out a long, frustrated groan and Eddie laughs.  
  
“No! What are we gonna do, drink corky, dirty wine?” Richie laments.  
  
“No, we’re going to forgo the champagne altogether, baby. It’s fine, no big deal.”  
  
“But this night was supposed to be perfect!” Richie whines. Eddie takes the bottle from him and puts it back in the bucket. He grabs Richie then and settles him back in his arms.   
  
“It is.” They both smile up at the stars as Richie’s body relaxes into Eddie’s.   
  
“Okay, little dipper,” Richie says.  
  
“Hey!” Eddie protests, blushing. “At least call me Ursa Minor!”  
  
“Well, good thing I’m Ursa Major, because I’ve got a major thing for you, Eddie Kaspbrak!” Eddie groans long and loud.  
  
“No puns, please, not tonight… Spare me…” Richie gets a mischievous grin on his face.  
  
“I can’t promise you shit,” he says, squirming under the blankets. Eddie sighs, shakes his head, but says nothing as they lie back, listening to the song play on.   
  
_So, you think you know the answers, oh no_ _  
__Well, the whole world has got you dancing_ _  
__That's right, I'm telling you_ _  
__It's time to start believing, oh yes_ _  
__Believing who you are_ _  
__You are a shining star_ _  
_  
The song changes to _Can’t Help Falling In Love_ by Elvis Presley, and Eddie feels his breath catch in his throat at the familiar tune. Richie hums along lowly, and then begins to sing along. It’s not goofy like it was that fateful night at the diner, but more sweet. It’s playful enough that it doesn’t scare Eddie too badly because their relationship is still so new, but serious enough to screw up his breathing. It makes him wonder if his mother was right and he should’ve brought his inhaler after all, even though he knows he doesn’t need it.   
  
_Shall I stay?_ _  
__Would it be a sin_ _  
__If I can’t help_ _  
__Falling in love_ _  
__With you?_ _  
_  
Eddie rocks Richie gently back and forth as he sings and Richie smiles up at him softly. Eddie kisses the edge of his hairline, even though he feels breathless and out of control. He realizes how far they’ve come in just four months. He wonders if he’s always going to feel this way about Richie, if he’s always going to feel this incredibly timeless when he’s with him. Richie leans his head against Eddie’s shoulder and sings up to the stars, a bit dazed as the music swells.  
  
_As the river flows_ _  
__Surely to the sea_ _  
__Darling, so it goes_ _  
__Some things_ _  
__Are meant to be_ _  
_  
His voice is lilting, airy, and the notes seem to hang in the air along with the stars. It makes Eddie wish he could reach out and grab them; he’s sure they’d feel cotton-soft to the touch. He laughs quietly when he realizes how silly it is to covet the stars when he’s already holding the sun.  
  
Richie rolls his head on the ball of Eddie’s shoulder slowly with a lazy, amused smile. “What? My voice not good enough for your high standards?”  
  
Eddie smiles back and holds him closer. “It’s perfect.”  
  
Richie presses his face against Eddie’s neck, sitting there for a bit before turning in his embrace and kissing up his throat. Eddie’s breath turns shallow before he starts to giggle due to the ministrations Richie’s giving a certain spot below his ear. Richie smirks, licking over it, and Eddie’s laughs increase in volume to the point where he can barely breathe. Richie pulls back and smiles fondly at his boyfriend, doubled over in laughter.  
  
“You’re so damn cute, Eds.” Eddie wipes at his neck, frowning a bit, but he blushes.  
  
“Shut up,” he mutters.  
  
“You shut up, cutie,” Richie shoots back, voice cloying.   
  
_“Richie!”_ he shrieks.  
  
_“Eddie!”_ Richie repeats, squealing in the same tone. Eddie narrows his eyes.  
  
“How about I _make_ you shut up?” Richie claps his hands in glee.  
  
“Ooh, I like that option!” he laughs as Eddie topples over on top of him. Richie feels he knows what Eddie is capable of. He thought he knew what Eddie was capable of. But Eddie continues to shock him every time they kiss, pulling out all the stops that Richie never even knew existed before him. As Eddie sucks on his neck, under his jaw, before nibbling on the skin there and soothing it with a lick, Richie pulls back, panting.  
  
“Where?” he asks, out of breath and completely bewildered. Eddie cocks his head and quirks his eyebrows in confusion from his place on top of him. “Where did you learn to kiss like this, Eds?”  
  
“Oh, I…” Eddie smiles and looks away, tucking a wild curl over his ear. “I dunno…”  
  
Richie knows Eddie only ever kissed him, due to their Never Have I Ever game. Eddie wouldn’t lie to cause himself more embarrassment. Richie doesn’t think never having kissed anyone is an embarrassing thing, but he remembers Eddie’s reddened cheeks, his hiding his fingers, and he knows Eddie certainly felt that way for himself. He never stopped thinking about how he was Eddie’s first kiss, was viscerally, violently aware of it at the time and still takes great care whenever he kisses Eddie, knowing how sacred Eddie holds that level of intimacy. Richie feels it’s just as important, but he never viewed kissing as a strictly romantic act; he had kissed Bill beforehand, to see what it was like, to make sure they were both doing it okay, and it felt platonic before, during and after the act to the both of them. He never judges anyone who considers kissing to be a strictly romantic act, he just knows he himself does not. But kissing Eddie is a whole other plane of intimacy for Richie. He didn’t know physical contact could feel so good, could feel this warm and safe and make him so happy. Knowing kissing brings Eddie joy and peace, too, brings them both closer together both as friends and as a couple, it makes Richie want to run, jump, dive. It makes him feel endless.   
  
Richie’s not taking _I dunno_ for an answer as a complete answer and gives him a flat look from where he’s laid underneath Eddie. “Yeah, I’m calling bullshit.”  
  
“What!” Eddie cries. “I just…” He sighs, looking away and shifting uncomfortably, thinking of the stacks of Cosmopolitan magazines hidden underneath his bed. “Can I tell you another time? I promise I’ll tell you eventually, just… not tonight.”  
  
“Is it another man, Eds? I’m hurt, I’m bleeding, get me a tourniquet,” Richie laments dramatically, and Eddie’s not sure if he truly feels insecure about his incomplete answer or not. He wouldn’t be surprised if Richie did, knowing the boy’s pension for taking things and blowing them up in his head.  
  
“It’s not another man, baby,” Eddie huffs, trying not to seem too put out. He’s not truly annoyed at assuaging Richie’s fear, he never would be. He’s glad to put Richie’s insecurities to rest. “You’re the only one for me.”  
  
Richie smiles, rolling them back around in the blankets and fluffing the pillows before cradling Eddie in the parentheses of his arms. Eddie sighs, settling against his chest and looking back up at the stars as _Time Has Told Me_ by Nick Drake plays softly in the background. This feels familiar to him, being held by Richie and watching the stars and listening to a mixtape that he’s made, in a way he can’t place. He shakes the feeling lightly and focuses on how truly beautiful it is to fall in love under the cover of night. He doesn’t think life can get better than the feeling of falling safely and comfortably in love.  
  
_And time will tell you_ _  
__To stay by my side_ _  
__To keep on trying_ _  
__‘Til there's no more to hide..._ _  
_  
The song comes to an end, its final notes hanging in the air for only a brief moment before they’re replaced with the following song on the mix, one with a much quicker tempo, and Richie smiles when he hears Eddie chuckle.  
  
“That’s one hell of a gear shift, Rich,” he comments, looking over his shoulder when Richie clambers to his feet and hops out of the truck’s bed, extending his hand out to Eddie where he is still lying in a heap of blankets and pillows.  
  
“You wouldn’t really leave me hangin’ now, would ya, Eds?” Richie asks playfully, furrowing his brow with a knowing grin, and Eddie shakes his head slowly, unable to fight the smile he can feel stretching across his own face as he takes Richie’s hand and lets him pull him from the truck and into his arms. Richie braids their fingers together while coiling his other arm around Eddie’s waist, resting his head delicately on Eddie’s shoulder - a feat as he is considerably taller than him - and they start to dance.   
  
_Well, it's a marvelous night for a moondance_ _  
__With the stars up above in your eyes_ _  
__A fantabulous night to make romance_ _  
__‘Neath the cover of October skies_ _  
_  
“I swear, I don’t know where you find some of these songs, Richie,” Eddie sighs, settling into the other boy’s arms in an attempt to slow their movements, but Richie is insistent on matching the song’s beat and so they are instead bopping around Cherry Bomb at an almost dizzying pace, the pair of them laughing loudly.  
  
“Oh, there’s a whole world out there, sunshine! You just gotta look for it,” Richie says simply, making a huge show of dipping Eddie in his arms and smiling widely when the smaller boy lets his head drop back with a giggle, completely trusting that Richie won’t drop him.  
  
“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’ve got you to show it to me…” Eddie replies in a voice barely above a whisper when he straightens up again so that he and Richie are nose-to-nose, and Richie’s breath catches in his throat when he notes the slight pink of Eddie’s cheeks, a dead giveaway that he too realizes the magnitude of what he’s just said. Richie smiles down at him softly and bumps their foreheads together before he begins to sing along with Van Morrison.   
  
_“Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love?”_ Richie croons, unraveling his fingers from Eddie’s to press his palm to his boyfriend’s cheek as they dance, and Eddie looks down at their feet, his blush deepening. _“Can I just make some more romance with you, my love?”_ He pecks the tip of Eddie’s nose and the boy giggles again, sliding his arms up and around Richie’s shoulders to draw him closer, and Richie hums, stroking his cheek gently.  
  
“This is nice, baby,” Eddie sighs as he plays with the tighter curls at the back of Richie’s neck, twisting them around his fingers, and a warmth spreads throughout Richie’s chest when the smaller boy looks up at him through his long lashes, stars high above their heads reflected in his dark brown eyes. “I’m glad we did this.”  
  
“Me, too, sweetheart,” Richie responds sweetly, leaning down a bit to kiss him softly, their lips just barely brushing together. “I couldn’t have asked for a better night with you.” He pulls Eddie into his arms and wraps his arms tightly around him, holding him to his chest, and Eddie lets his eyes close gently, listening to the sound of Richie’s heartbeat, to the notes pouring from the stereo as Moondance comes to an end, and he thinks he can definitely get used to this, to having nights like this all of the time. “Know what would just be the perfect end to this already perfect night?” Richie asks knowingly, scratching his nails lightly along Eddie’s spine, and Eddie shivers at his touch, but leans into it still with a quiet sigh.  
  
“Knowing you, I’m a little scared to ask,” Eddie chuckles, and Richie nuzzles his nose into the smaller boy’s curls, the pair of them still swaying in place despite the song having trailed off into silence a moment ago.  
  
“Let’s spend the night out here,” Richie suggests lightly. “We can camp out in the back of Cherry Bomb.” Eddie chuckles again, but this time, there’s a touch of melancholy in his tone.  
  
“I’d love to, ‘Chee - but you know my mother would throw a holy fit if she found out I slept outside in October… She’d have me in the hospital the second I turned up at home, convinced I have pneumonia...”  
  
“Oh, I’d keep you nice and toasty warm, Eds,” Richie promises, tickling his sides, and he softens when Eddie giggles, the smile he’d already begun to miss even in its brief absence returning instantly. “But really, if you don’t want to -- ”  
  
“Oh, no. Let’s get that straight - I _want_ to,” Eddie promises, eyes burning. “I just don’t want to end up in the emergency room over it.”  
  
“So,” Richie decides slowly, “we don’t tell her.” He mimes his mind exploding with his hands, sound effects and all, and Eddie laughs as Richie climbs back into the bed of his truck, burrowing beneath the blankets and holding his hand out to his boyfriend. “Seems like a solid plan to me, Spaghetti Man.”  
  
“I can’t believe you still insist on calling me that even though we’re fucking dating, Richie,” Eddie is frowning petulantly but Richie smiles brightly.  
  
“Some things never change.” Eddie’s face twists into a smile, one he doesn’t look too pleased to be wearing. “So, how ‘bout it?”  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Eddie agrees with a nod. “But if I do catch my death, it’s on you.”  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Okay, so it may not have been Eddie who caught his death.  
  
“Eds…” Richie moans over the phone early in the morning the Monday after their date. “You have to come save me.”  
  
“No,” Eddie says flatly. “It was your decision to stay outside when you knew it was cold; this is very much on you and I’m not going to risk catching whatever you -- ”   
  
“Please,” Richie whines, drawing out the word, and Eddie knew this fight was over before it even begun; of course he was always going to come over and take care of Richie, especially once he told Eddie that his mother went to work that morning without a word of comfort to him and Jess had laughed in his face when she saw his red, stuffy nose and called him a ‘fucking clown.’  
  
Eddie sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to develop a game plan.  
  
“Eddie baby, are you still there?” Richie asks after a long pause, a touch of hurt and confusion in his voice. “You didn’t hang up, did you?”  
  
“No, angel, I’d never,” Eddie says, his voice pitched low and soothing, and Richie, despite the chills wracking his body, feels warmer just from the sound. “I’m just trying to figure out how to get over there without my mother finding out where I am.”  
  
“Well, I usually pick you up in the morning… Tell her you’re gonna walk?”  
  
“It’d be too suspicious, she’s already on the fence about you driving me in the first place. Plus, she’d say it’s too cold to walk.” Eddie’s voice is hushed and timid - hushed so his mother won’t hear him, and timid because he’s talking about her in the first place. Richie realizes this and nods resolutely.  
  
“I’ll come pick you up.” Eddie starts to argue, but Richie bowls over him. “It’s okay, darling, I’ll be fine to drive the mile it takes to get to your house. As long as you’re okay with cutting school…”  
  
“Yeah, it’s fine. The Losers will pick up both our missed work.”  
  
“Oh, shit!” Richie hisses. “I have a French test today! Fuck!”  
  
“Richie, you have a valid excuse with being sick. I’m just an idiot of a concerned boyfriend.”  
  
“You’re not an idiot. You’re too good to me…” Richie sighs. Eddie smiles, humming in agreement. He hears his mother puttering around upstairs and whispers harshly to Richie.  
  
“Shit, babe, I gotta go. Mom’s coming.”  
  
“Alright, I’m on my way to get you,” Richie assures. “Just sit tight.”  
  
“Hurry!” Eddie hisses, voice laden with anxiety, and hangs up the phone quickly as he hears his mother descending the stairs.  
  
“Eddie Bear, who are you talking to?” Sonia asks, voice lilting and familiar in all the worst ways.  
  
“No one, Mom!” Eddie rushes out, giggling nervously. “Just repeating some info for a science test today!”  
  
“Oh, do you want me to study with you before school?” Sonia asks excitedly. “I know you don’t have the best memory…”  
  
“My memory’s fine, Mom,” Eddie says curtly, annoyed that she would insinuate something so blatantly untrue. “And, anyway, Richie’s gonna be here soon.”  
  
“Ugh,” his mother groans. “I don’t know why you won’t let me drive you to school, Eddie. That boy has only had his license for six months! And with that death trap of his, he’s sure to crash you both. Car crashes are the most painful way to die, Eddie Bear.”  
  
“I know, Mom,” Eddie grits out, a placid, forced smile on his face. “But Richie’s a good driver. I’ll be fine.”  
  
“If he drives as fast as he talks, you’re sure to -- ”  
  
“Oh, Mom, I think I hear Richie outside!” Eddie calls, grabbing his backpack for both for appearances and because it has his wallet in it. “I’ll see you later! I’m going to Richie’s after school, so don’t wait up!”  
  
“No, Eddie, you can’t!” his mother shrieks as he opens the door. “You have to come straight home and study!”  
  
“Bye, Mom!” he calls out, ignoring her denial entirely and shutting the door in her face. Thankfully, Richie is just pulling down his street, even though Eddie was absolutely bluffing when he said that to his mother. He waves at Richie who’s wrapped in a plaid blanket, and Richie waves back. Eddie jumps in and Richie smiles at him.  
  
“Hey, pretty boy,” he says. “Where to?” Eddie winces.   
  
“You sound even more congested than you did over the phone, honey…” Eddie sighs. “Let’s go to Freese’s; I wanna pick something up for you.”   
  
“Ooh, a _gift?”_ Richie squeals, immediately reaching down to work the gearshift. “My boy really is good to me!”  
  
“It’s nothing…” Eddie blushes, smiling slightly. “I’m just gonna make you soup and get you a decongestant. Nothing big.”   
  
“Soup?!” Richie cries, bouncing slightly in his seat. “Oh, happy day! My strong and handsome gentleman caller is going to make me _soup!”_   
  
“He certainly won’t if you keep calling him that,” Eddie grumbles. “Now, drive.”  
  
“Yes, sir!” Richie cheers, grabbing for Eddie’s hand out of instinct. Eddie shrinks into the door and pulls his hand away from Richie’s.  
  
“No way! No hands when you’re sick!”  
  
“But baby,” Richie whines, pouting at the road. “I need the comfort!”  
  
Eddie sighs and puts his hand delicately on Richie’s shoulder over the blanket. “That good?”  
  
“Mmm, any touch from you is good enough,” Richie smiles, and Eddie does, too.  
  
“Just drive, Richie. Your voice is already sounding scratchy from that Voice you did, I don’t want you to lose it completely.”   
  
“Smart boy,” Richie coos.  
  
“What did I say!” Eddie hisses. Richie mimes zipping his mouth closed and reaches over to tuck it in Eddie’s pocket. “Hands on the fucking wheel, idiot.”   
  
When they make it to Freese’s, Eddie immediately points at Richie with the hand that’s on his shoulder. “Okay, you stay here.”   
  
“What?! But why?”  
  
“Because you shouldn’t be infecting half the town with your illness, dummy. Plus, I’ll only be a second,” Eddie says, opening the door and stepping out of the truck.  
  
“I’ll think of you the whole time!” Richie cries. Eddie rolls his eyes.  
  
“That I’m sure of.”   
  
Eddie shuts the door softly and walks into the market. He’s praying nobody recognizes him and lets him in and out with minimal damage, but of course, that’s not feasible - they live in a small town and Eddie very much looks his age. So when he spots Norbert Keene in the spice aisle, Eddie ducks into the aisle beside him and begins a recon mission. He feels like a fucking loser dipping in and out of aisles in the supermarket, like this is some spy movie Richie has made him watch. Eddie’s heart is beating wildly out of his chest and he is certain Mr. Keene can hear it. He’s sure even his mother can hear it and will come bursting through the double doors of the grocery store at any moment, demanding he come home and be locked in his room until he graduates. He knows his mother and Mr. Keene communicate behind his back, even to this day, because even though he doesn’t take any of his medication anymore, he still gets his placebo inhaler refilled every now and then when it runs out of camphor. Eddie is clutching the chicken breast to his chest and peeking around the aisle at Mr. Keene when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He whips around, eyes wide and terrified, and sees none other than his boyfriend standing behind him, also crouching.   
  
“Who are we hiding from?” he whispers. “Is this some sort of game?”  
  
“Get back in the car!” Eddie hisses. “Why are you even in here? I thought I told you to wait outside, you imbecile.”  
  
“I got bored,” Richie whines quietly, and then spots Mr. Keene in the aisle over. “Oh, shit.”  
  
“Yeah. Oh, shit is fucking right,” Eddie whispers harshly. “If he sees me, I’m fucking screwed. You, too, my mother thinks you’re driving me to school right now.”  
  
“Okay, so let’s get outta here.”  
  
“No way!” Eddie barks, and then slaps his hand over his mouth. He continues much quieter. “I’m making you soup, there’s no fucking way we went through all this stressful bullshit for nothing.”  
  
“Baby, it’s fine, I don’t need -- ” Richie cuts himself off by coughing roughly into the crook of his elbow and Eddie simply levels him a look. “Fine. But I still maintain that it’s not worth the anxiety.”  
  
They watch Mr. Keene enter the aisle over, grab several packages of ramen noodles, and then walk up to the front to pay.  
  
“Ramen and cardamon? Who is he, Paula Deen?” Richie demands. Eddie snorts into his hand and shakes his head. Eddie pulls Richie into the far aisle, farthest from the window, and waits for the tell-tale ring of the bell over the door, signaling that Norbert Keene has left. When it chimes, Richie lets out a dramatic sigh of relief.  
  
“Norbert Keene has left the building, ladies and gentlemen!” he announces, and Eddie slaps his hand over Richie’s mouth quickly.  
  
“Shut the fuck up, ding dong.” He quickly pulls it away, remembering Richie is sick, and grimaces at his palm as if he can see the germs crawling on it. “Shit, now I have to go wash my hands. Go pick out some celery.”  
  
“Ew, no,” Richie refuses, face twisting in disgust.  
  
“What the fuck, why? The recipe demands celery.”  
  
“Well, I demand that the recipe not demand celery.”  
  
“Well, you can go fuck yourself. Go pick out a stalk,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes and walking into the bathroom before Richie can whine any further. Eddie scrubs his hands violently and then walks back out to find Richie eyeing the bin of celery with his hands on his hips and a dubious expression on his face.  
  
“Richie, it’s not that hard. This one’s fine.” Eddie picks up a stalk and Richie shakes his head, pushing Eddie’s arm back down so he doesn’t have to touch it.  
  
“No, that one isn’t good enough. If I’m going to eat this pointless vegetable, it better be the fuckin’ bomb.” Eddie stares at him blankly.  
  
“Pointless? Why is celery pointless?”  
  
“Because it’s just water, Eds. It’s stupid, bad tasting water. Iceberg lettuce can also go fuck itself, if you ask me,” Richie sniffs derisively.  
  
“Well, good thing I didn’t ask you. This stalk is fine.” Eddie picks the stalk back up and puts it in the cart. “Carrots are next. Do you have a moral disdain for carrots as well, princess?”  
  
Richie turns scarlet at the name, but shakes his head primly. “No. Carrots are fine.”  
  
“They fuckin’ better be…” Eddie grumbles, picking up a bunch of carrots. “What kind of spices do you like?”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know…” Richie trails off, scuffing his converse on the floor. “I’m not sure. What kind of soup are you making?”   
  
“Chicken noodle. I know you wouldn’t eat anything else I made, your taste is quite bland.”  
  
“Hey! My taste is as exciting as I am!” Richie defends, crossing his arms over his chest.  
  
“You get the same thing every single time we go to the diner. Chili fries and chicken fingers. Every single day, you eat chicken fingers. You don’t even ever get any dipping sauces with it! Heinous. I never want to see another strip of breaded chicken as long as I fucking live.”  
  
“Well, I think I have excellent taste. I’m dating you, aren’t I?” Richie prompts, the question quiet enough so that only Eddie can hear him. Eddie blushes and hides his smile against his chest.  
  
“Okay, Romeo, let’s keep moving.” Eddie puts a few other ingredients in the cart and grabs two boxes full of decongestant. He announces they’re ready, and when they make it to the front, Richie picks up a pack of gummy worms and puts them on the counter.  
  
“Shit, are you seven years old? Put those back,” Eddie demands.  
  
“No. I’m sick, I need sustenance.”   
  
“I’m literally making you soup, what other sustenance could you possibly desire?”  
  
“Gummy worms, obviously,” Richie scoffs.  
  
“I’m not buying you gummy worms, get them yourself.” Eddie rolls his eyes.  
  
“I thought you were my sugar daddy, though!” Richie cries. The older woman at the register looks up, startled. Richie just smiles at her as Eddie blushes and shakes his head.  
  
“Not this time. You’re gonna have to pay your own way, princess,” Eddie sasses quietly. Richie looks over sharply at him, eyes wide and glassy, cheeks flushed.  
  
“You have to stop calling me that in public, Eds,” he hisses. “My weak heart can’t take it.”  
  
Eddie laughs and touches the small of Richie’s back, urging him forward in line. “You go first.”  
  
“Alright,” Richie looks up, scanning the cigarettes on the shelf on the counter, trying to figure out how he’s going to slip a pack of Parliaments into his pocket. Of course, Eddie sees this happening and puts a stop to it.   
  
“Oh, no, you’re not,” Eddie warns quietly. “No more cigs.”   
  
“What!” Richie whips towards Eddie. “Why not?”  
  
Eddie levels him a dark look. “You know why.”   
  
“I actually don’t,” Richie says, eyebrows quirking. “You’ve gotta give me a reason besides _you know why_ for me to not swipe those cigarettes, Eds.”  
  
Eddie sighs harshly and leans up to whisper in Richie’s ear. “I have to kiss that mouth now. There’s no way I’m kissing you after you’ve smoked those disgusting -- ”  
  
“Sold,” Richie says, cutting him off loudly. “Say no more.”  
  
“We’ll do some research, see if there’s another option,” Eddie promises, and Richie smiles softly down at him.  
  
“Okay,” he says, voice quiet and fond. “Sounds like a plan.” He turns back to the woman at the register, looking between them confusedly.  
  
“Do you need anything else?” she asks.  
  
“Not today, ma’am,” Richie says with a smile. “Just the worms.”  
  
“$1.50, then.” He digs out some change and a crumpled single from his pocket, counts out the change, and tosses it on the counter. She puts it in the register without even looking at it.  
  
“Thanks, come again,” she says flatly. Eddie starts to unpack the cart, denying Richie’s help, saying that he doesn’t want to infect the food, grabbing his wallet from inside his backpack and paying as well. After they pack up the car, tossing the food in the small back seat, Richie drives them back to his house with Eddie’s hand on his shoulder blades, rubbing comforting shapes into the blanket and hoping he feels it through the thick layers. Richie smiles at the road the entire time, wishing they could be holding hands like they usually do for a sense of normalcy, but glad to have any contact at all.  
  
Richie pulls into the Tozier’s driveway and parks the truck as Eddie grabs the food from the back. Richie goes to reach for a bag, but Eddie pulls them away from him.  
  
“No. You’ll infect me. Stay in your bubble,” Eddie says, much to Richie’s chagrin.   
  
“I can’t even help you bring the groceries in?” he pouts. “Jeez, Eds, I’m not a walking infection…”  
  
“You might as well be!” Eddie hisses, softening a bit when he sees Richie’s face fall. “I’m sorry, babe, but I can’t afford to get sick… My mom will…” Eddie doesn’t finish his sentence, looking away as Richie shoots him a sad smile, covering his hand with the blanket and touching Eddie’s thigh.  
  
“I know, honey. It’s okay. I understand - I’m not really upset.” Eddie looks up and Richie smiles at him warmly. “Thank you for bringing the groceries inside and coming to see me at all. I know how hard this kinda shit is for you.”  
  
“Eh,” Eddie shrugs. “Easier when it’s you.”  
  
“Yeah?” Richie smiles.  
  
“Yeah. I don’t wanna like… make out with you,” Eddie grimaces, eyeing Richie’s hand on his leg. “But I wanna take care of you. You’re my best friend and my boyfriend, even when we don’t kiss. I don’t wanna leave you. Not when you’ve got no one else around right now to help you.”  
  
“Well, I do now!” Richie crows, squeezing Eddie’s thigh and getting out of the truck. “Now, c’mon, we’ve got some soup to make!”   
  
“I’ve got some soup to make. You are staying warm and staying out of trouble.”  
  
“But I’m chilly!” Richie cries, pulling the blanket tighter around himself as they walk inside, Eddie looking around nervously to make sure nobody sees him. “And I’m never trouble.”  
  
“Sure,” Eddie says sarcastically, pulling a face. “As long as you never open your mouth. Key?”  
  
“I didn’t lock it.”  
  
“Richie!” Eddie shrieks. “You’re going to get your house broken into!”  
  
“There’s nothing in here to even steal,” Richie snarks, opening the door for Eddie and backing up to allow him to pass by into the house. “Except my dignity…” he says darkly and with an edge of humor.  
  
“God, you’re such a drama queen,” Eddie laughs. They go into the kitchen and Eddie puts the groceries down on the counter and begins opening the doors below the sink, looking for a large pot.   
  
“Pot? It’s in here, sweetheart.” Richie points at the top cabinet, knowing Eddie doesn’t want him touching anything. Eddie shoots him a grateful smile and pulls down a metal pot. He puts it in the sink and begins filling it with water.  
  
“Can I at least chop some -- ”  
  
“No,” Eddie interrupts without turning around. “You touch nothing. You sit and you wait.”  
  
“But that’s boring,” Richie whines. “I wanna help. I can be helpful.” He hacks out a cough into the crook of his elbow. Eddie puts the pot on the back burner of the stove and turns to him, shooting Richie a look. “Fine. I sit and I wait… But I won’t be happy about it!”  
  
“Okay, honey,” Eddie says placidly, fiddling with the knobs of the stove. “You can be helpful by taking the one of the antihistamines I got you. You’d do well to do a shot or two of the nasal spray as well. They’re in the bag.”  
  
“I didn’t even see you got me nose spray! You’re the best, peaches.” Eddie smiles as Richie takes the drugs with a yelp of “Yucky! Bleh!” after the decongestant goes down. He disappears upstairs afterwards while Eddie continues chopping onions carefully. He looks around and peeks up the staircase and quickly chops up a stalk of celery and slips it in the boiling water before Richie can protest. Richie comes back down carrying a book and dragging two things behind him. Eddie looks closer when Richie hops up onto the counter and sees that they’re both stuffed animals. One is a stuffed dragon and the other is some sort of unidentifiable... hippo? Bear?  
  
“What is that?”  
  
“Stop!” Richie cries, cradling it to his chest and pulling it underneath the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders so that Eddie can’t see it. “You’re hurting his feelings!”   
  
“What could you even name something like that?” Eddie asks, stifling a laugh as he peers over the blanket.  
  
“Fireball,” Richie answers proudly.   
  
“...Why? He’s grey.”  
  
“You’re hurting his feelings!” Richie screams. Eddie winces and shushes him.  
  
“I have a knife in my hand, you absolute moron!”  
  
“Sorry. And it doesn’t matter that he’s grey!” Richie says, voice notably softer now. “He can be anything he wants! Don’t hold our child back, Eds.”   
  
“Is every stuffed animal either of us ever receive from now on our child?” Eddie asks, bemused.  
  
“We need an army.”  
  
“You? With an army? I’ll pass,” Eddie scoffs.  
  
“Liar. We can rule the world,” Richie says in what should be the British guy Voice, but is marred heavily by the the nasally quality of his tone. “You will be my king. I’ll be parliament, but we’re still married.”  
  
“What? That’s utter nonsense, that’s not even how the UK works! You’re a fuckin’ idiot.”   
  
“Oh, darling, no dirty talk in the kitchen. You know how your insults drive me wild.” Richie bats his eyelashes at Eddie.  
  
“Terrible,” Eddie deadpans, shaking his head disapprovingly. “Not even cute.”  
  
“Liar!” Richie accuses, pointing his finger at Eddie. “Fireball can tell, he told me so!” Richie inches closer to Eddie on the counter and walks Fireball up to where Eddie is chopping dicing onions. “Say you’re sorry to Fireball.”  
  
“I’m not going to apologize to an inanimate object for something I said to you, Richie,” Eddie sighs.  
  
“Eddie! You’re going to give our child a complex.” Eddie laughs and Richie slumps over, nearly dropping his stuffed animal in the process. He reaches to grab for it and drops his book as a result. He winces at the loud noise as it slaps on the ground and then groans, frustrated. He holds his head in hands.  
  
“Eddie,” he whines. “My head hurts.”   
  
“Yeah?” Eddie turns off the stove and walks over to the bathroom, searching through the medicine cabinet above the sink. He hums disapprovingly. “Where do you keep your acetaminophen?”  
  
“My seat is right here! I don’t wanna get off the counter!” Richie moans.  
  
“No, Rich, acetaminophen. Tylenol. I figured you had some in the house already.”   
  
“Oh,” Richie says, much quieter. “It’s up in my room, in my desk. We keep the drugs away from my mom. Bill told me to store them in my room because… when she drinks...”   
  
“Oh. Okay,” Eddie says mostly to himself as he quickly heads upstairs and rifles through Richie’s desk. He finds the little white bottle of Tylenol and, really, he doesn’t mean to see what he does. Honestly. Eddie isn’t nosy. His mother is the nosy one. She invades his privacy in ways that makes him feel so uncomfortable, he has to hide the things he doesn’t want his mother to find behind innocuous clothing in his closet so she won’t get angry. Eddie isn’t nosy. He’s not. So he didn’t mean to see it.  
  
But when he looks up and sees the wine bottle he gave to Richie on the night of his 16th birthday sitting innocently on his desk, he feels nosy. But once he sees it, he can’t stop staring. The longer he stares, the more his hands start to shake. It gets to the point where his hands shaking so hard that he drops the bottle of Tylenol on the floor, little white pills spilling everywhere.   
  
“Shit. Fuck. Stupid fucking bottle not having a childproof cap,” he mutters, dropping to his knees and trying to put the pills back. He examines each pill one by one and brushes them off meticulously before dropping them back in the bottle. “That’s all Mom’s good for: childproof fucking caps.”  
  
He sighs harshly and goes to pick up another pill when another hand beats him to it. The hand picks it up and extends it towards him. Eddie looks up and sheepishly looks at Richie. They both look nervous for much different reasons.   
  
“Need a hand?” Richie asks with a shaky half-smile.  
  
“Sorry,” Eddie rushes out. “I-I dropped these, I’ve gotta make sure they’re still okay to take, so -- ”  
  
“It’s okay, Eds, no worries.” Eddie holds out the bottle and Richie drops the pill he’s holding into it.  
  
“I’ll deal with the rest, I-I’ve gotta just… do it myself. It was my fault, I -- ”  
  
“Eddie, no, it’s fine. I can help,” Richie says, reaching for another.  
  
“No!” Eddie shouts. Richie shrinks back and Eddie sighs, frustrated at himself. “I’m sorry, I just… I can’t touch anything you’ve touched…”  
  
“Oh.” Richie’s voice is small and there’s a note of hurt in it. Eddie feels tears well up in his eyes and he glances up at the wine bottle still on the desk.   
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, feeling useless and small. He digs the heels of his palms hard into his eyes into he sees stars and then releases them - a trick he learned can always buy him a few seconds away from his anxiety. “I swear to God it isn’t you, Rich. My mom, if I get sick… I’ll never leave the house again…”    
  
Richie frowns and places his hand palm up on the floor between them, a white flag of sorts. Richie isn’t angry, he understands, but his own anxiety is skyrocketing as his train of thought spirals to whatever Eddie could be thinking about the bottle. He feels like a fucking fool for leaving it out where Eddie could see it in the first place.  
  
“What do you want me to do?” Richie asks. He desperately wants to hold Eddie, to help him, to do anything. But he can’t. His migraine throbs strong and painful behind his eyes, his heart aches in his chest and he feels like a tender bruise, exposed to the world at large.  
  
“Just…” Eddie looks back up at the wine bottle and his eyes stay there while his hand hovers over another pill. He eyes slip shut, shakes his head and sighs softly. “Can you go wash your hands and chop up the carrots?”   
  
A small, genuine smile appears on Richie’s face, although Eddie doesn’t see it. That fact makes it all the more real. “Really?”  
  
“Yeah.” Eddie nods and then his mouth quirks up quickly before it drops again. “Just don’t breathe too closely to the food.”  
  
“I’m the one who’s going to be eating it, Chef Kaspbrak!” Richie laughs. Eddie opens his eyes and the smile he’d tried to resist before blooms full-force.  
  
“Fair point.” Richie gets up and heads towards the door, but stops in the threshold and turns back.  
  
“Eds?” Eddie turns to him. “Are we…” Richie looks at the wine bottle. “Is everything okay?”  
  
“Sure.” Eddie nods and smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Everything’s okay.”  
  
Richie gives him an identical, false smile and their hearts snap in half in unison, a crack in the universe bending and breaking between them. Richie goes back downstairs and they give themselves both the time it takes for Eddie to clean up the pills and wipe them all off to collect themselves and set the intention to have a better day.  
  
  
  
By the time the soup is finished, Richie has almost entirely forgotten about the wine bottle.  
  
Almost.  
  
He still gets flashes every now and then of realizing that Eddie had been gone for too long and going to check on him only to find him on his hands and knees, shaking, staring at the wine bottle he so foolishly displays in his room. Over the summer, finding the mixtape he’d given to Eddie still in his walkman had been a reminder for him that Eddie still hadn’t truly moved on from the pain of that spring. He wonders if finding the bottle had been an identical reminder for Eddie. Those had been what they considered each other’s parting gifts at the time - now they have all the time in the world to give gifts, to make up for lost time. But the wounds are still there. Scars don’t disappear just because there are plasters to hide them.  
  
Richie is snoozing lightly against the cabinet when Eddie brings a bowl of soup to the table.  
  
“Come eat, sweetheart,” Eddie says from the other side of the small kitchen. His voice is quiet and small but it echoes cavernously in Richie’s head, not just due to his ebbing migraine, but from the gentle, cloying quality in it. Richie thinks he might follow Eddie to the ends of the earth if asked to in that tone. Richie picks his head up and blinks his eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright, harsh light of the afternoon sun in the kitchen. Eddie smiles at him and waves him over where he’s blowing on his own bowl and Richie loves him. He knows that more certainly than anything else. He wants to have this every day for the rest of his life. He smiles and makes to walk over, but Eddie points at the sink.  
  
“Hands.”   
  
After his hands are washed, Richie tries the soup. It’s mediocre at best and Eddie knows it, but Richie acts as if he’s eating a meal at the Ritz, staring at him moony-eyed while he sips on it.  
  
“C’mon, Rich, it’s just soup.”  
  
“But it didn’t even need extra salt and pepper! You measured out the spices perfectly to my taste!” Richie says, voice full of pride.  
  
“Yeah, it’s like I know you or something,” Eddie marvels sarcastically. “Weird.”  
  
“You do,” Richie laughs. “And do you know what the special ingredient was?”  
  
“God, I can only imagine…” Eddie mutters, taking another sip.  
  
“A smile.” Eddie levels him a dark look when Richie shoots a sticky-sweet, tooth-rotting grin across the table.  
  
“I did not smile once during the creation of this meal.”  
  
“I literally watched you smile four times during the creation of this meal, and I had my eyes closed for half of it.”  
  
“I’d like to see you prove it,” Eddie says challengingly, narrowing his eyes. Richie laughs and it turns into a cough that Richie hides into his arm at the last second. Eddie gives him a pitying look but says nothing as he continues to eat his soup. After a while, Richie sits the bear up that’s laying across his lap and pretends to feed it.  
  
“See, Eds? Even Fireball likes it! You’re a regular Chef Boyardee!”  
  
“Chef Boyardee is a hack,” Eddie spits to Richie’s laughter. “And where did you even get that bear? It looks like it’s been through hell and back to get to this table.”  
  
“He has,” Richie says gravely. He breaks out laughing again and Eddie smiles softly, glad to see him forgetting about their incident upstairs. “No, I’m fuckin’ with ya. My mom brought me to Dave and Busters. You know, in the mall in Portland? She went to, like, buy clothes or something and left me in there to my own devices. I think she only dropped me in there so she could go shop in peace, but it was her loss because the woman missed out on some epic gaming done by one hyperactive as hell Richie Tozier.”  
  
Eddie hums. “How old were you?”  
  
“Ah, seven I think?” Eddie looks sadly down at his soup before forcing a smile on his face that he hopes Richie doesn’t see right through.  
  
“That sounds like a fun day, baby. Too bad I wasn’t with you - we could’ve run that one-horse town.”   
  
“Actually, there were many horses. Stuffed ones. A 35-horse town, but we would’ve run it regardless.” Eddie smiles brightly at him as Richie picks up the bowl and downs the rest of its contents. He slams it down on the table. “Another round, good chap! On the house, I presume?”  
  
“You presume correctly,” Eddie laughs. He goes up to fill Richie’s bowl, but Richie follows him, dragging Fireball behind him by the arm, its legs dragging on the ground behind him.  
  
“Eddie,” Richie whines.  
  
“What,” Eddie sighs, turning to him and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m already getting you another bowl, Rich, do you need water? You know you need to keep hydrated, replenishing your fluids is really important when you’re sick.”  
  
“No, I’ve still got some…” Richie puts out his arms, Fireball swinging in the air. “Hold me.”  
  
“Not until you’re on antibiotics,” Eddie says, turning back to the stove and scooping more broth than meat into the bowl.  
  
“Then take me to the doctor, Dr. K!” Richie crows. He feels Richie crowd up behind him and the fuzzy arm of Fireball touches the skin of his cheek. He smiles despite himself. “I need my cuddles.”   
  
“That thing hasn’t been washed since the 80s, get it off my face please.”   
  
“Well, since you said please,” Richie says, putting the stuffed animal down on the counter and washing his hands again. He dries them off with a paper towel, upon Eddie’s insistence that it’s less dirty than a dish towel, and walks up to Eddie again. He takes the bowl of soup out of Eddie’s hands and puts it down before touching Eddie’s face lightly. Eddie grimaces and Richie shushes him.   
  
“It’s okay, baby. You just watched me wash my hands, right?” Eddie nods. “So you know they’re clean. I washed ‘em just like you taught me, in between the fingers and everything.”  
  
“It’s where most of the germs lie,” Eddie breathes.  
  
“I remember,” Richie responds quietly. He watches Eddie close his eyes and lean into his touch and Richie aches to kiss him.  
  
“That’s it, sweetheart. No need to worry.”  
  
“Hmm.” Eddie puts his hands on Richie’s shoulders over his thin t-shirt and Richie’s eyebrows jump but he says nothing, afraid to spook him, to break the spell cast over the room.   
  
“Hey, Eds?” Richie whispers. Eddie raises his eyebrows but makes no other indication that he’s heard him. “Thank you.”  
  
Eddie smiles and nods, turning his head slowly and pressing a long kiss into the center of Richie’s palm. It feels like the most intimate contact Richie has ever felt; Eddie is kissing his skin when he’s sick, despite his intense fears and imposed anxieties on the subject. Richie thinks Eddie is the bravest person he knows. Richie loves him, loves him, loves him.  
  
“You’re welcome.”  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Beverly is walking down Kansas Street to get to Freese’s so she can pick up a pack of cigarettes when she spots Katherine Thackery walking out of the butcher’s shop. Her heart almost stops in her chest, but she collects herself quickly so she doesn’t lose track of Kate in the fray of people. She runs to catch up with her, smiling as she jogs down the street.  
  
“Hey! Katherine!” Kate turns around and sees Beverly barrelling towards her on the street. She smiles, dazed, and runs to meet her in the middle. They nearly bump into each other when they skid to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk, but they stop before colliding.  
  
“Bev! You’re -- hi!”  
  
“Hey, Kay.” Kate giggles madly and incriminatingly before she cuts herself off sharply with wide eyes. Beverly’s still smiling just as sweetly as before though, and Kate’s stomach drops out at the sight.  
  
“How’re you doing?”  
  
“I’m good... I’ll be honest though, I didn’t even know you lived in Derry before the dance. Thought you might’ve been someone else’s cute date from another town. I’ve never seen you - I think I’d remember.” Kate only lets out a short giggle this time, but her blush rises prettily on her cheeks and Beverly is absolutely smitten.  
  
“My dad’s the butcher! Lotsa people know me, you gotta get with the program, missy!” Kate scolds, playfully swatting at her arm. Beverly smirks, leaning up against the wall of the warehouse they’re in front of with her arms crossed.  
  
“Guess I do.” She’s so casual and disaffected that Kate isn’t sure where she stands, but she called her _cute._ Twice now. She feels like they’re at least on friendly terms.  
  
“Come to my party,” Kate blurts out all in a rush. Beverly raises her eyebrows. “Uh, my… Halloween party. With my friend, my-my-my… boyfriend. Nick.”  
  
“Oh.” The disappointment in Beverly’s voice is palpable and, just for a moment, Kate hopes. Beverly perks back up quickly with a practiced smile, telling herself she should’ve known that the boy always in conjunction with Kate’s name was her boyfriend. “Sure, Kay, name the time and place.”  
  
_At least I didn’t lose the name,_ Kate thinks.  
  
“7:30, October 31st, 1992.” Beverly smiles. “Nick’s house is on Palmer Street, the one caddy-cornered on Jackson and Main. Big white house, you can’t miss it, promise.”  
  
“Okay, Kay.” She winks and Kate tries hard not to visibly swoon. “Can I bring some pals? Don’t go anywhere without ‘em. I’m like their keeper - just a bunch of dumb, sweet boys, they won’t cause any trouble.” Beverly grins, and it’s crossed between wicked and the sweet one that Kate likes so much. “Not sure I won’t, though.” Beverly shoots her a wink that Richie says could make anyone weak at the knees.

 

“Ha!” Kate squeaks, a high-pitched, nervous chuckle that has her swaying into Beverly’s space accidentally. Beverly leans in, too, and just for a moment, they own the world. There’s no rules or labels or confusion to be spoken of; just two girls on a sidewalk in a town they’ve known a long time. But then someone bumps into Kate and sends her tripping sideways on the street, and as she rights herself, she realizes that what she’s pretending she can do is silly. She can’t have Beverly Marsh. She can’t have anything she knows she really wants. That, she knows, is against the rules of the life of Katherine Thackery. And Kate always plays by the rules - always.  
  
“I’m sure it’d be fine,” she says, clearing her throat and shaking off whatever she imagined passed between them in that moment. “It’ll be a big party, no worries.”   
  
“Cool,” Beverly nods. “See ya around.” She pushes up off the wall and starts to walk away when Kate’s voice calls out to her. Beverly turns.   
  
“I really hope I see you there, Beverly,” she says, voice almost too weak to carry the distance between them, but Beverly’s listening. She’s paying attention. She smiles, the sweet one from before - a little crooked, all teeth - and Kate’s knees definitely feel weak now.   
  
“You will.” Beverly winks swiftly and then turns to walk down the street. Kate watches her go and then leans up against the wall of the warehouse, sliding down it once Beverly turns. She lets out a big breath, scared and shaky and entirely exhilarated.   
  
“Oh, no.”


	7. Fall, 1992 (Part Two)

Beverly does not for a single second realize the magnitude of what she is about to do when she shows her friends _Rocky Horror Picture Show_ for the very first time. It’s on the first rainy day in October that she brings the VHS to Stanley’s house, concealing it in her bag so as to avoid any potentially intrusive questions from her Aunt Shirley. She loves the woman dearly, but on a list of things she’d rather not do, explaining why she’s sneaking this particular movie out of their apartment is almost at the top.  
  
Stanley’s brow furrows when she hands him the VHS discreetly, taking in the art on the case with a quizzical look. Beverly rolls her eyes at him, insisting that he just trust her judgment and play the damn movie (“You know it’ll be better than _The Burbs…”_ “In my house we _respect The Burbs!”_ “This is Stan’s house, Richie…”). Stanley shrugs, unable to disagree with the notion that regardless of his skepticism over this movie he’s never heard of, anything would be better than _The Burbs;_ he pops the tape into the VCR before retaking his place on the sofa beside Bill, who curls his arm around Stanley’s shoulders and pulls him closer, almost into his lap.  
  
“Hey, this is a family affair, Denbrough,” Mike reminds playfully, throwing a handful of popcorn at him.  
  
“Oh? W-Who’s gonna tell them?” Bill chuckles, pointing to where Richie and Eddie are wrapped up in one another on the loveseat and looking like they have absolutely no intentions of separating any time soon.  
  
“Hey!” Mike shouts as Ben tosses a pillow at the pair, and they spring apart, Richie’s head snapping up to look around wildly for the source of the blow while Eddie turns the precise shade of red as his hoodie, like he somehow forgot that they were all still in the basement with him. “Smooch on your own nickel, you animals - this is family time,” Mike decrees.  
  
“Sorry, Mikey. I finally got over my flu and we’re like those penguins that get separated from their mates,” Richie says. Eddie looks at him, confused.  
  
“What?”  
  
“They flap their arms and get real happy!” Richie explains with a smile, flapping his arms for a moment before curling in closer to Eddie and putting his head on his shoulder. “Penguins mate for life and they can get separated for years, but they always find their way back to each other.”  
  
“And how exactly are we like those penguins, Rich?” Eddie asks, his teasing voice much sharper than the delicate way he’s brushing Richie’s hair away from his face and kissing his hairline.  
  
“I dunno. Mates for life,” Richie shrugs, completely unaware of Eddie’s blood running cold and his heart stopping for several beats before starting back up again. He stares down at Richie wide-eyed, but his boyfriend is too busy tying the strings of their hoodies together with a pleasant, satisfied smile to notice. Eddie beams at him, eyes bright but smile soft, marveling, before Mike’s voice cuts through the delicate haze.  
  
“Alright, alright! Order!” he calls, using the television remote like a gavel against his knee. “Now, let’s all watch this movie and keep our hands and various other body parts to ourselves.”  
  
“No promises,” Beverly replies cheekily, tossing her legs up and over the arm of the couch before slouching back and letting her head fall to rest in Ben’s lap as the opening credits began to roll, the faint tune of the first number crescendoing until Richard O’Brien’s nasally voice filled the basement, singing what, truthfully, could only be described as utter nonsense as nothing more than a pair of red, glossy lips adorned the television screen. Ben blushes a deep shade of scarlet at this comment, but says nothing. Beverly looks around at her friends, and every single boy is entranced, watching the screen skeptically, waiting for sense to come, but Beverly has seen this movie far too many times to count, and she knows that it never will.  
  
The reaction from the group, initially, is divided.  
  
“Bev, what the fuck are we watching?” Stanley asks, but she brings a finger to her lips quickly, shushing him just as Brad Majors bursts into Dammit Janet.   
  
“Just trust me, Stanley,” she pleads, patting his knee affectionately. Bill is tapping his foot along to the music.  
  
“I like it,” he says, shrugging when Stanley looks at him like he’s gone and lost his mind too. “What? It’s catchy, hon.”  
  
“Listen to your boyfriend, Stanley,” Richie insists. “This is already a masterpiece and it hasn’t even been ten minutes! Nice choice, Bevs,” he adds, reaches over to grab a handful of popcorn from the bowl in Mike’s lap, pulling Eddie with him by accident due to the fact that he forgot their hoodie strings are still tired together. Beverly grins at him from upside down, her head still resting on Ben’s knee.  
  
“Oh, just wait, Tozier - I think you’re really gonna love what’s coming up.”  
  
  
  
“Beverly, I can never forgive you for this,” Mike groans somewhere around the fourth rewind of the Time Warp. Richie, Bill, and Ben are all on their feet now, trying (and failing, miserably) to learn the steps of the absurd dance that goes along with that song.  
  
“It’s a jump to the left, Haystack - you know? _Left?_ As in, you have two _left_ feet,” Richie says when Ben steps on his foot, having jumped lavishly to the right - again.  
  
“You’re so mean to me, Trashmouth! Aren’t any of you going to defend my honor?” Ben cries as he whirls around, but Beverly is lost, giggling hysterically into her hands after watching the three of them try to master such trivial choreography and seeing them fall abhorrently short. The only one who has a decent grasp on the dance is Bill. (“No fair! Billy Boy’s had professional dancing lessons! I call nepotism!” “You have no fucking idea what that even means, do you, Tozier?”)  
  
Beverly bans any more rewinding of the movie, much to Mike’s delight as he is sure by now that Time Warp is going to be stuck in his head for the rest of his life, possibly longer if Eddie doesn’t stop humming it under his breath. Beverly’s eyes are trained on Richie as the next scene unfolds, waiting with bated breath for the reveal of Dr. Frank-N-Furter, and when he whirls around to reveal an ostentatiously made-up man with dark, smokey eyeshadow climbing up to his penciled-on eyebrows and plump, glossy red lips, it’s hard to say whose shriek is louder - Janet’s or Richie’s.   
  
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Richie cries in his Southern belle Voice, fanning himself with his hand. “That is one beautiful man.”  
  
“Alien, technically,” Mike corrects.   
  
“A beautiful alien, then…” Richie trails off, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees as he watches wide-eyed while the scantily-clad man - alien, he hears Mike in his head - dances about the interior of the castle; he wears nothing more than a corset, lingerie, fishnet stockings that climb up his long legs, and a pair of thick-heeled boots. Not unlike the onlookers in the movie, the group of teenagers crowded around the television all gape open-mouthed at Frank-N-Furter, stunned by his clothing (or lack thereof), his sultry voice, and - in Richie’s case, at least - the positively sinful way he’s capable of moving his body. “Is it hot in here?” Richie jokes when Frank-N-Furter’s entrance number comes to an end, but there’s a slight quiver to the boy’s voice, and when he tugs at his shirt collar, he reveals the start of a blush at his neck. Beverly is smirking triumphantly.  
  
“Like the movie, Tozier?”  
  
“Yeah,” Richie nods, voice thick, and he wolf-whistles when Brad and Janet are stripped down to their undergarments by Magenta and Riff-Raff. “Damn, somethin’ in this movie for everyone, huh?” he asks, but then he thinks of something. “Wait - does anybody in this basement even like girls?” Bill, Ben, Mike, and Beverly’s hands shoot into the air.  
  
“Please, have you seen Magenta?” Beverly sighs when her friends all turn to look at her.  
  
Richie grins and Eddie shoves his arm, his face flushed as well, but for an entirely different reason than his boyfriend’s. “It was just a question, doll,” he insists, and he goes to wind his arms around Eddie, but the boy shrinks away from him, just about as far as he can get and still be on the loveseat. “Babe?” Richie pouts when Eddie doesn’t look at him, his heart-rate spiking. “Did I say something stupid?”  
  
“No, nothing,” Eddie shrugs, eyes trained purposefully on the television as Frank’s creature, Rocky, is chased around the laboratory by his creator. “By all means, keep drooling over Frank.” Richie blinks. _Oh._ _  
_  
“Baby. You can’t tell me you’re _jealous?”_ Richie gasps, gauging Eddie’s response to the suggestion, and when Eddie still doesn't turn to face him, Richie’s frown deepens, the lines in his forehead wrinkling. “Eds, c’mon. You know I think you’re the sexiest guy on Earth - wait, shit, Frank’s an alien - okay, fine, you’re the sexiest being in the universe. Better?” Richie whirls around to face his friends when Eddie doesn’t respond. “I’m dyin’ over here, guys.”  
  
“You made your bed,” Stanley mutters, shrugging as he stares at the television, interest suddenly hitting him like a freight train in the form of Rocky as he watches the creature lift the weights handed to him by Frank.     
  
“You gotta get yourself outta that one, buddy,” Ben insists, and Bill shushes them all.   
  
Eddie keeps his eyes trained on the television set even though Richie is staring at him with an inscrutable, intense look in his eyes. The thing is though, Eddie can’t stop staring at Frank; his muscles, his makeup, his strong legs and thick shoulders. He’s tall, towers over everyone in his heels, and Eddie wonders why he can’t be that. Why he had to be made so delicately, so small.  
  
 _This must be what Richie wants,_ Eddie thinks, trying to blink back tears, knowing Richie is still watching him. Eddie is a sensitive, weak thing - that’s what his mother has always told him. _Don’t have sex, Eddie. It will make you impure. You need to stay safe._ Eddie has those thoughts rolling around in his head as he watches Frank in his corset, his long, solid legs that go on for miles. Why would Richie want him if he wants Frank-N-Furter? They’re virtual opposites. Frank is liberated, free, open, proud, larger than life. Eddie has to hide the fact that he wants to do something as chaste as hold Richie’s hand from everyone except the people sitting in this room, let alone do anything more than that. He had even forced Richie to hide that for months. Eddie has to hide himself in his entirety to avoid ridicule. Frank is everything Eddie is not.  
  
And that’s just it, isn’t it? Frank isn’t real. If Frank lived in Derry, he wouldn’t be so quick to step out of the house in a pound of makeup. But he doesn’t need to hide himself because he isn’t real. Maybe that’s what Richie wants: someone made up. Maybe that’s what he likes about Eddie: the parts of himself his mother fabricated to make him easier to chew up and swallow with his pills every day. Why would Richie want someone like _him_ if he’s blushing over someone like _that?_   
  
And honestly, Eddie might’ve been attracted to Frank in a different world, a world where he didn’t find Richie first. Eddie has had thoughts about other men before, but nothing to the degree of the way he thinks about Richie. It’s clear to Eddie now that that’s not the case with Richie. Eddie will never be Frank-N-Furter. He’s just as unreal, but in all the wrong ways. Eddie floats away when he needs himself the most. Eddie loses track of who he is, who he really is, because he isn’t sure who is Eddie Kaspbrak and who is Eddie Bear, his mother’s caged bird. He won’t be anybody else’s stifled creature. He thought Richie wanted to be with him, the real him, but the way Richie had looked at Frank-N-Furter makes him think he was only around for the chase, for the thrill of the argument. Eddie is more than a rollercoaster; he’s also the nausea afterwards. He’s also the feeling of having left your body in the sky. He’s also the feeling of wanting it all to be over.  
  
Richie slumps back in the seat, frowning still, knee bouncing nervously, and after a minute of silence, he reaches cautiously to take Eddie’s hand in his. He sees it as a good sign that Eddie lets him, that he doesn't shrink away from his touch, but Eddie still doesn’t look away from the television. Richie runs his thumb slowly across the back of Eddie’s hand, tracing a circle there as he watches Eddie watch the movie, and he raises their hands to his lips so he can press a soft kiss to Eddie’s knuckles, eyes never leaving his face. He can almost see Eddie soften, see his shoulders relax as he turns finally to look at him straight on, and it nearly rips Richie’s heart out of his chest when he sees the sadness in Eddie’s eyes. Richie holds his arms out in front of him wordlessly - an open invitation - and Eddie crawls into his space, curling up in his boyfriend’s lap while Richie wraps his arms tightly around him. Eddie is grateful for the pressure, for how tightly Richie holds him to his chest because he was beginning to feel like he might float away, like he would drift off without something to weigh him down. Richie never treats him like he’s breakable or delicate, even when he’s close to shattering. Eddie nuzzles his nose into Richie’s neck as he hugs him to his chest and Richie runs his fingers haphazardly through Eddie’s hair, saying nothing, terrified of himself and his notoriously poor choice of words during moments that matter. So he defaults to silence, hoping that Eddie can grasp what he’s trying to tell him through the gentle ghosting of Richie’s hand along his spine.   
  
His heart breaks when he hears Eddie sniffle. “I’m sorry, darling,” he whispers, forgoing his chosen silence, pulling him closer, and he kissing the tip of Eddie’s ear. He says it so softly that none of the other’s can hear, grateful then for how engrossed in the movie they’ve all become. “I’m sorry.” Eddie clings to him but still says nothing, and Richie feels sick when he realizes Eddie is crying now, feeling his tears on his neck. He rubs his back, whispering apologies until the tremors rocking through Eddie’s body die down. “Eddie darling, do you want me to walk you home?” Richie asks quietly, utterly lost about what to do, but Eddie shakes his head quickly, his grip on Richie’s shirt tightening.  
  
“No,” he chokes out in a muffled sob against his throat, and he sniffles again before turning so that his cheek is pressed to Richie’s chest. He blinks away a few tears as he refocuses his attention on the television. “No, I want to stay here and watch a movie with my friends,” Eddie whispers. “My mom, she’d… I don’t like my mom seeing me like this. I can’t be… real.”  
  
“Okay, Eds,” Richie nods, stroking his hair, afraid the boy in his arms might fall apart completely. “We can stay… but do you wanna go upstairs for a minute? You’re shaking, baby.”  
  
“Yeah…” Eddie nods. “Yeah, okay.” He climbs out of Richie’s lap and gets to his feet, eyes trained pointedly on his shoes as Richie stands up, too, winds his arm around Eddie’s waist, and heads towards the stairs. None of their friends say a word - not because they don’t notice or don’t care, but because they know Eddie, and they know that their eyes on him is the last thing he needs right now, that their offering to help would do nothing but mortify him even further.  
  
Only Beverly looks up as they pass behind the sofa, catching Richie’s eye, asking silently if he needs any help in calming Eddie down. Richie hesitates for one moment, wondering if he shouldn’t ask her for help. _Bev is way better at this than you,_ he thinks shamefully, his stomach twisting into knots as he can already see himself screwing up, making this worse somehow. He shakes his head at the last moment, realizing that if he can’t be there for Eddie all on his own, then he deserves him even less than he initially believed. Beverly nods wordlessly, a small but encouraging smile on her lips, and then she turns her head back towards the television.   
  
They make it to the top step of Stanley’s front porch before Eddie collapses in a heap on the staircase, crying in earnest now. Richie sits down next to him, hands hovering around him. He honestly doesn’t know what would be helpful for Eddie right now. Maybe Beverly really would be the better choice; after all, she wasn’t the one who completely fucked up.   
  
“Eddie darling, do you want me to go get Bev?” Richie asks gently. Eddie looks up, startled, eyes wide and glossy.  
  
“You don’t want me?” It’s said so quietly that Richie wouldn’t have caught all four words if he weren’t reading Eddie’s lips. Richie reacts on instinct, placing a hand on Eddie’s thigh and wrapping the other around his shoulders, pulling him closer to his body, their body heat moving between them in the cold, October night.  
  
“No, no, I want you so much,” Richie rushes desperately. “I want you more than anything. I’m just afraid I’m gonna be no help right now.”  
  
Eddie shrugs, hands shaking in his lap. “You always help, even when I wanna fucking throttle you.” They smile at each other for a moment, and suddenly, they both feel so normal. Like maybe this is okay after all. Eddie can break down and Richie can fuck up and it’ll still be alright. They’ll still want to be there for each other.  
  
“How can I help, sweetheart?” Richie begs, dragging the hand that’s on Eddie’s thigh and grabbing blindly for his hand, not wanting to look away from Eddie’s eyes. Eddie looks down and threads their fingers together before looking back up.  
  
Eddie lets out a slow, measured breath. “Ask me what’s wrong.”   
  
“What’s wrong, Eds?” Richie asks, glad Eddie is giving him some direction. That there’s a direction to go in at all.  
  
“I feel like someone like Frank-N-Furter is a better match for you than I am,” he says, and it’s said in defeat, shoulders slumping underneath Richie’s arm, but his voice doesn’t waver. He entirely believes what he’s saying.   
  
Richie fish-mouths for a moment, unable to find the words to explain how wrong he is. “Eddie, you’re… I want _you._ I fought to be with you for, like, years. Plus, Frank isn’t real.”  
  
“Neither am I,” Eddie whispers, and Richie cocks his head.  
  
“You said that before, at the dance. Do you really believe you aren’t real?” Richie asks, brows furrowing. He’s never heard of somebody not believing they’re real. Sure, Richie’s had moments where he wishes he _wasn’t_ real, was never born at all. But he’s certain everybody feels that way, never even brings it up.  
  
Eddie shrugs. “Yeah, sometimes. I’ve -- I’ve never told anyone. I’m afraid they’ll think I’m crazy. Crazier than I already am,” Eddie snorts humorlessly. He looks up from his and Richie’s hands. “Do you think I’m crazy?”   
  
“No, baby, I’m never going to think you’re crazy,” Richie smiles patiently. “You could tell me you want to steal the Mona Lisa and sell it for profit and I’d put on my sneakin’ clothes and be right behind you with a flashlight. But you’re going to need to tell me more about what you’re feeling because I’m not sure I completely understand it.”   
  
Eddie whines high in his throat. “Do I have to?”  
  
Richie chuckles. “Not if it won’t help. But it will definitely help me be a better boyfriend if you do. And a better friend in general to you.”  
  
“Okay,” Eddie sighs. “Sometimes I feel… out of my body? Like my head is in the sky and I can’t reach it. But more than that, I feel like… like a ghost, kind of. I suppose that’s the best way to put it. Like I’m haunting my own body.”  
  
Richie nods. “Is that scary?”   
  
“Uh-huh,” Eddie says, returning the nod. “It gets me really nervous sometimes. That’s why I stopped kissing you in the bathroom at Homecoming. My head... floated away, I guess.”  
  
“Is…” Richie has always stayed away from using words like _anxiety_ with Eddie, afraid his mother’s voice saying that he’s sick will rear its ugly head. But this doesn’t sound like the same affliction to Richie. Regardless, he knows Eddie doesn’t have the ability to do anything about it right now. “How can I help when this feeling comes on?”  
  
“I like being touched when it happens,” he says, and looks up to find Richie with a little grin and raised eyebrows. “No eyebrows!” he giggles, slapping Richie in the chest. It feels like the first time he’s laughed in weeks and he’s so, so grateful for Richie Tozier.  
  
“I can do that. Touch you, I mean. Is stuff like this okay?” he asks, gesturing to his position curled around Eddie’s side, arm bracketing his back. Eddie nods. “When you get scared, too?”  
  
“Yeah. I like when you… I like your voice, too. I like when you talk to me.” Richie smiles ruefully.   
  
“I’m always afraid I’m going to say the wrong thing, like I did downstairs. I’m sorry for what I did, I-I wasn’t thinking,” Richie sighs, breaking eye contact and looking down at his lap shamefully. Eddie suddenly feels the anxiety peak again. Did he make Richie think this was _his fault_ somehow?   
  
“No, no, Richie, no. You didn’t do anything. You have nothing to apologize for. You didn’t do anything,” he babbles, on the edge of hysteria, breath coming in quick puffs. “Stan was effectively drooling over Rocky and Bill was fine - he didn’t freak out or anything… God, I really fucked this up. I’m sorry, I -- ”  
  
“Eddie darling, you fucked nothing up,” Richie says slowly, evenly, putting a solid hand on Eddie’s back and rubbing in smooth circles. He doesn’t speak again until Eddie’s breathing has slowed. “Maybe I have nothing to apologize for, but neither do you. We all have insecurities, you know? But I need you to know something…” He removes his arm from where it’s resting on Eddie’s back. He picks up Eddie’s legs and places them over top of his own thighs so that Eddie is fully facing him on the stairs. Richie puts his hand back on Eddie’s thigh and slides the other over his neck and into Eddie’s hair, the heel of his palm resting on the soft cut of his jaw. “You are what I want. Not an alien or someone like him. Not someone who’s… out, or whatever. Not someone who isn’t you, Eds. I have wanted you for so fucking long and I feel like I won the damn lottery or some shit that I get to sit here with you. You are indescribably beautiful to me, just as you are. I don’t care that you’re not tall or super buff or don’t look like the guy in the movie, or whatever. I don’t care. I don’t care about him. I care about you and that makes you even more beautiful. Does that make sense?”  
  
Eddie’s close to crying again, tears stinging his eyes. He wipes at them violently, laughing a bit. “I believe that you believe that.”   
  
“Good,” Richie smiles. “You’d better. I’m so glad I get to be with you. I don’t want anybody else. Got it, cutie?” He winks at Eddie and Eddie laughs, rolling his eyes, but the butterflies are alive and fluttering in his stomach. He thinks Richie breathes life into everything he touches, including Eddie himself. Eddie feels awake for the first time, sees the colors of the world, feels all of the places where his body connects with Richie’s, and for a blissful moment, everything is fine. He leans his forehead onto the ball of Richie’s shoulder, smiling, and Richie scratches lightly at his scalp where his hand is resting. Eddie sighs and kisses Richie’s shirt.   
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Richie hums. “For what, sweetheart?”  
  
“All of it. All you do.” Eddie rolls his forehead so he can look up at Richie. He cups Eddie’s cheek and leans down to kiss Eddie’s temple.  
  
“Anything for you.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
They go through multiple ideas on how to do their shadowcast. When they found out that Paul from the thrift shop puts it on at the Aladdin every year (and locks the doors afterwards so no one can get in - a good idea in their town), all of them went and begged him for him to let them be the shadowcast. He’d readily accepted, telling them that he wasn’t even sure if anyone was going to step up. I was going to have to fill all the parts! he’d crowed with a smile. Richie nodded excitedly, telling him that he would’ve done a bang-up job. Paul had smiled brightly, thanked the young man, and promised that so long as he was able to be their Dr. Scott, he was happy to have them along for the performance.  
  
When they gather at Bill’s house to try to sort out the remaining characters, they realize they’ve hit a wall because none of them care what gender they play. They decide to put the names of the characters in Stanley’s baseball cap and pick randomly.  
  
That goes poorly.  
  
“Magenta?” Richie cries. “I can’t be Magenta! I’m -- ”  
  
“Watch what you say next, Tozier, Magenta is a queen and an icon,” Beverly glares.  
  
“ -- not even close to as beautiful as her, is obviously what I was going to say. Bev, who did you get?” Beverly smirks.  
  
“Frank.” Richie gasps like he’s been mortally wounded.  
  
“No! We can’t do it this way. I thought I was cool with someone else being Frank, but none of you losers could pull him off.”  
  
“Hey!”  
  
“It’s true, you’re -- ”  
  
“Alright!” Ben yells, cutting through the sudden din. “This is not a good system as it turns out. It’s already turning us against each other.” Beverly and Richie glare at each other from the corners of their eyes, arms crossed across their chests. “Guys. Do I have to treat you like you’re preschoolers? Say you’re sorry.”  
  
“She started it!” Richie protests, literally pointing fingers. Beverly scoffs, affronted, and goes to return the blow, but Ben cuts in again.  
  
“You guys are on a ten minute probation. No more speaking to each other for ten minutes unless you can apologize. You guys are 16 years old, this is crazy,” Ben laughs. Richie sulks over to Eddie.  
  
“Dewdrop, I would make a good Frank, right?” he asks, batting his eyelashes dramatically.   
  
Eddie shakes his head, hands in the air as a white flag. “No way, I am _not_ getting in the middle of a fight between my best friend and my boyfriend, worst idea of the year. Including dating you,” he teases with a smile and a wink. Richie sticks his tongue out, dragging his feet over to the couch to sit next to Bill.  
  
“Billy Boy, you’ll be a chap and tell me how pretty I am, won’t you?” Richie says, fluttering his eyelashes.  
  
“I never said you weren’t pretty! Stop slandering my good name!” Eddie cries from the other side of the room.  
  
“S-S-Sorry, Rich, Beverly would skin me alive if I fra-fraternized with the enemy,” Bill chuckles, patting him on the shoulder. “Come back in ten minutes and we’ll be b-b-b-best pals again.”  
  
Richie sighs dramatically, flopping over the back of the couch. “Is _anybody_ willing to join Team Tozier?”  
  
“There’s no teams, Richie! We just need a new system! Quit it with the drama queen act, buddy,” Mike laughs. Richie flips over and walks over to him.  
  
“Fine, Hanlon, what do you suggest?”  
  
“Well, who does everyone want?”  
  
“I w--”  
  
“We know, Richie, you want to be Frank-N-Furter. That much of the last five minutes is obvious,” Mike quips.  
  
“I k-kinda wanna play Riff-Raff,” Bill offers. They all nod.  
  
“Fabulous idea,” Richie says. “Anybody have any reason these two should not be wed? Speak now or forever hold your peace.” There’s a silence in the room as they look at each other. “Sold! For zero dollars to Stuttering Bill Denbrough!”  
  
“Okay, auctioneer Voice is gonna get old fast, babe, we still have five more people to get through,” Eddie says kindly, and Richie sighs.  
  
“You’re stifling my art, buttercup,” Richie laments from his place where he’s flopped back down on the couch next to Bill, looking at Eddie from upside down. Eddie rolls his eyes.  
  
“I’m a monster,” he deadpans.  
  
“I’ll be Magenta, if Beverly is cool with it?” Stanley suggests, and Beverly nods, giving him a wary look.  
  
“Take good care of my baby, Stanley.”  
  
“I’ll treat her as if she was my own,” Stanley vows.  
  
“I’ll be your Columbia then!” Beverly cries and Stanley reaches out for a high five, to Richie’s affronted gasp.  
  
“You told me you were morally against high fives, Stanley!”  
  
“Eddie told me you didn’t wash your hands for a week straight once, so I’d rather never touch you again,” Stanley frowns, shaking his head.  
  
“Hey!” Richie says, turning to Eddie. “That was told to you in confidence!”  
  
“It was stupid and you should’ve washed your hands,” Eddie retorts, completely unashamed.  
  
“It was a dare! I still showered and stuff!” Eddie hums disbelievingly. “You don’t believe me?!”  
  
“Honestly, babe, when it comes to your hygiene, I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Eddie sighs dramatically. Richie does end up laughing with the rest of them. He loves when Eddie plays along, even if it’s at his expense.  
  
“I’ll play Eddie!” Ben offers. “Not… Not our Eddie… You know what I mean…”  
  
“We know, bud,” Bill reassures. “So, that leaves Rocky, Janet, and Brad!”  
  
“I’ll play Rocky,” Mike offers after taking a deep breath, and everyone falls silent for a moment, stunned.  
  
Bill is the first to speak, and his voice is full of care as he rests his hand on Mike’s shoulder.  
  
“Mikey, you kn-know that Rocky is sh-sh-shirtless the whole time, right?” he asks. They all have known Mike for long enough to be aware of the fact that he does not display the burns he got from his house fire for just anyone; it had taken a while for him to even be comfortable bearing them around the people in this room, his closest friends, let alone be willing to parade them around on a stage in front of a crowd of strangers, but Mike smiles timidly, nodding at his friend.  
  
“Yeah, I know he is, Big Bill,” he assures. “I figure… they’re not goin’ anywhere, you know? I gotta embrace ‘em sometime…” Bill smiles back at him understandingly, squeezing his shoulder, and Beverly crosses the room to throw her arms around Mike’s middle in a fierce hug.  
  
“I’m proud of you,” she declares sweetly, not bothering to wipe away the tear she feels rolling down her cheek, and Mike hugs her back, kissing the crown of her head.  
  
“Get ‘em, Hanlon! Make ‘em weep!” Richie crows in his photographer Voice, and Mike shakes his head at the other boy fondly, beaming just the same as the rest of them.   
  
“Fuck off, Richie,” Beverly laughs, untangling herself from Mike and finally wiping her face with the edge of her cardigan sweater.  
  
“Alright, alright,” Mike chuckles, blushing as he is not used to being the center of attention, and pats Beverly’s back. “Who’s gonna be my Janet?”  
  
Eddie squares his shoulders and looks Mike in the eye. “I’ll do it.” They all whirl to face Eddie, mouths dropped in surprise.  
  
“Babe, are you sure?” Richie asks. “You know what happens in the middle there? We skipped some parts the first time we watched it…”  
  
“Yeah, and we’ve since watched it six times since then, Richie,” Eddie says pointedly. “We haven’t had a movie night that hasn’t been Rocky Horror in two weeks. You bring it every time you come over and annoy me until we watch it or I threaten to kick you out. I know what happens, dear.”  
  
Richie lifts up his hands in defense. “Alright, don’t shoot the messenger. I, for one, think you’d make an incredible Janet.”  
  
“Yeah,” Beverly agrees. “You’d really catch her spirit.”  
  
Eddie smiles at her. “Thanks, Bevs.”   
  
“So, who’s gonna be Brad?” Richie questions.   
  
“Asshole!” They all crow back and Richie laughs.  
  
“The man of the hour. The man, the myth, the legend.” They all sit in silence. “None of us have any other friends, do we?” Everyone shakes their heads and then they all burst out laughing.  
  
“For a group so open-minded, we sure as hell do not have an open-door policy,” Beverly giggles, wiping away another tear. “Ben was our exception.” She smiles warmly at him, tucking herself into his space. He smiles shyly at her, but says nothing, afraid anything that comes out will be too sappy for the moment they’re in.  
  
“So we’ve gotta find Brad,” Mike muses.  
  
“We’ve gotta find Brad,” Richie agrees.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“I just feel like he doesn't really jive with the group,” Richie groans to his friends as they’re crowded around their usual booth at Sue’s. It’s nearly 9:00 P.M. and they've just spent the entire day at the Aladdin auditioning Brads for their shadowcast with Paul. Everyone seems to be in agreement over who their Brad should be - well, everyone except Richie, who’s looking like he just swallowed an entire lemon.  
  
“He’s the only one who was any good, Rich,” Stanley reminds, and all of the others nod. “And besides, Nick seemed nice enough…”  
  
“Nice enough is not good enough for me! I’m supposed to trust this person with my Eddie Spaghetti? My gumdrop! My angelcakes!” Richie shouts dramatically, almost as if he's forgotten Eddie is sitting right beside him, turning the precise color of the strawberries floating around in the smoothies they are all drinking. “He can't be _nice enough.”_ _  
_  
“I’m a big boy, Richie,” Eddie sighs.  
  
“Oh, I know, baby,” Richie agrees with a smirk and Eddie hits his arm, flushing even more.  
  
“If I wasn't comfortable around Nick, I would tell you all,” Eddie promises, and he’s met with murmurs of agreement from the rest of them.   
  
“And we’d want you to tell us, Eds,” Beverly insists. “Janet and Brad spend a lot of time together so it’s important that you feel okay being around that other person… We understand that.”  
  
“Y-Yeah, Richie, we’re not gonna m-make Eddie uncomfortable. We l-l-love him, too, ya know,” Bill reminds softly.  
  
“Okay, well what if I don't like being around him?” Richie demands.  
  
“Oh, we don't care about that at all,” Ben says in an entirely monotone voice, and Richie gasps as everyone else laughs.  
  
“Beverly, Benjamin is being inconsiderate!” Richie shouts in a high, almost childlike voice as he points at Ben, knowing that she is the only one who’s ever capable of reining him in. Beverly, who is polishing off the last of the smoothie she and Ben had been sharing, merely shrugs before placing the empty glass on the table and falling once more into place against Ben’s shoulder.  
  
“I’m not his keeper. Why exactly did you not like Nick, anyway?” she asks, furrowing her brow at her friend, and Richie slouches on the opposite side of the booth, sliding so far down that he is halfway underneath the table as he folds his arms across his chest with a pout.  
  
“He was obnoxious!” Richie exclaims.  
  
Stanley snorts. “That’s rich comin’ from you, Trashmouth…” Richie points madly at Stanley, eyes darting back and forth between him and Ben.   
  
“Hey!” he shouts before he turns to Bill, mock desperation in his eyes. “Can you please control your boyfriend?!”  
  
“That w-wouldn’t make for a healthy relationship, b-b-buddy,” Bill replies cheekily, and Richie rolls his eyes.  
  
“I think we need a vote here,” Mike pipes up from his place on Eddie’s opposite side. “Who thinks we should go ahead and keep auditioning Brads?” Richie’s hand is the only one to shoot up into the air, and when he sees this, he whirls around to gape at his boyfriend.   
  
“Eds! You’re supposed to be on my side!” Richie whines.  
  
“I would be if there was any other choice, baby, but Nick is all we’ve got…” Eddie says, and Richie’s shoulders slump as he lets his forehead fall against Eddie’s shoulder, letting out a muffled scream against the collar of Eddie’s jacket. Eddie pats his head. “I know, I know,” he comforts, half-laughing at the other boy’s dramatics when Richie’s head suddenly snaps up with a gasp.  
  
“There’s a sex scene between Frank and Brad,” he hisses shrilly, and it takes everything in Eddie not to chuckle at the downright repulsed expression on Richie’s face. He turns his nose sharply into the air and yells, “I won’t do it! I absolutely refuse!”  
  
“Jesus, Tozier - you’re not actually gonna get with the kid,” Beverly rolls her eyes, laughter in her voice.  
  
“I can’t even fake it! I can’t - I won’t!” Richie crosses his arms again, nodding to himself, content with his decision.  
  
“Nobody said you had to do it, baby,” Eddie says, and Richie sits up a little taller when he thinks Eddie is agreeing with him, but then he adds, “We can find another person to be Frank if -- ” and Richie’s entire demeanor changes.  
  
“Absolutely not!” he shrieks, and this time, Eddie does laugh. “There is only one Frank-N-Furter and that is _me._ I’ll do it,” he says begrudgingly to the whoops and hollers of his friends, and even he can’t keep a grin off of his face. “But goddammit if I won’t be miserable about having to act like I wanna fuck Old Saint Nick…”  
  
“Well, on that note,” Ben begins, getting to his feet with Beverly following suit. “Bev and I are gonna run to the thrift shop before it closes to grab more stuff for our costumes - anyone else wanna come?”  
  
“Bill, don’t you still need a blonde wig?” Beverly reminds and Bill slaps a hand to his forehead.  
  
“Right,” he sighs, letting his hand trail down over his face, and he turns to Stanley. “You wanna come, hon?” Stanley shrugs.  
  
“Yeah, okay. I can see if there’s an apron there…” He lets Bill pull him to his side and the four of them wave to Mike, Eddie, and Richie before making their way out of the diner.  
  
“What do you think of this Nick cat, Mikey? You’ve been awfully quiet…” Richie accuses, peering at his friend.  
  
Mike shrugs. “I wouldn't say I’d necessarily wanna be great pals with the kid, but he’s alright...” Eddie laughs when Richie’s grimace returns.  
  
“Give it up, baby - you’ve been outvoted…” Eddie says just as they hear the bell hanging over the diner’s entrance ring throughout the otherwise empty building.  
  
None of them even look up, assuming it’s just Bill running back to tell them something, or maybe Ben retrieving something Beverly had left behind. Richie is the first to notice that is not the case, looking up from the remnants of his burger and fries to find himself face to face with the boy in question as he draws closer to the counter to place his order.  
  
Nicholas Englehart is a year younger than all of them but he’s almost as tall as Mike or Stanley, and with his shaggy blonde curls, moderately athletic build, and seemingly never-fading tan from spending every waking moment he isn't in class out sailing with his father, he is a regular, modern-day Adonis. And Richie fucking hates him.  
  
“Oh, hey, guys! I wasn’t expecting to run into you here,” Nick grins brightly when he notices Mike, Richie, and Eddie. He walks over to stand beside their booth, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie that reads _Englehart’s Sailing: We Float Your Boat!_ beneath a sketch of an antique clipper. The Engleharts have dominated the sailing market in Derry for generations, and Richie thinks it’s a bit pretentious to wear his wealth. Richie doesn’t shove his fantastic sense of humor in people’s faces - why should Nick get to shove his money in Richie’s? Okay, maybe he does shove his humor in people’s faces. But only a light shove. He’s not a monster like Nick clearly is.  
  
Richie’s nose wrinkles distastefully. “Trust me, we weren't expecting it either,” he mumbles and Eddie pinches his thigh under the table.  
  
“How are you, Nick?” Eddie asks genuinely, and Richie wraps his arm securely around his boyfriend, staring pointedly at the other boy over the tops of his glasses and daring him to even look at them the wrong way.  
  
“I’m doin’ just fine, Eddie - thanks for asking!” Nick replies with half a wink and Richie’s blood boils. “Just grabbin’ some grub. Did you guys pick a Brad yet?”  
  
“We’re still mulling over our options,” Richie says harshly and Mike aims a kick at him under the table.  
  
“Don't listen to Tozier, he loves messing with people - you’re it, dude! Congrats,” Mike informs with a nod and the smile on Nick’s face widens.  
  
“Oh, sweet! Thank you, guys! I won’t let you down, I swear,” Nick insists, bouncing on his toes excitedly and clapping Mike and Richie both on the shoulder.  
  
“That’ll be subjective…” Richie grumbles, shrinking away from his touch but Mike brings his hand around to shake Nick’s with a grin of his own. Nick either ignores Richie’s comment or simply doesn’t hear it.  
  
“Hey, Nick, you wanna sit down, man?” Mike asks, and Richie’s head snaps to him, eyes wide and pleading. “We’re leaving in a bit, but we’d love to chat for a little while.”  
  
“We would?!” Richie whispers harshly, but Nick is already sitting down.  
  
“Oh, wow, thank you guys so much! Y’all are so sweet - it’s nice to have some friends other than the guys on the football team,” Nick laughs. “They’re not such great company some of the time.”   
  
“Yeah, I fuckin’ bet,” Richie mutters.  
  
“Hmm? What was that, Richie?” Nick asks with a smile.  
  
“Oh, nothing, old pal! Just talkin’ to my dear ol’ Eddie Spaghetti, here!” Richie says, pulling Eddie closer into his side, staring Nick down, daring him to say something. He just keeps smiling at them and Eddie gives Richie a quizzical look.  
  
“You okay, Rich? You sure that meat wasn’t too rare? Did you contract some sort of foot-in-mouth disease?” Eddie smirks, leaning back to give Richie a significant look. Richie meets it and sighs.  
  
“No, nothing. Must’ve just been a 24-minute bug or something,” he teases back, and Eddie laughs.  
  
“Yeah, I’m sure.”   
  
“Hey, Nick, do you know anyone on the baseball team?” Mike asks.  
  
“Nah, not really,” Nick says. “The baseball team is kind of notoriously angry at the football players for stealing the limelight at Derry Central. Why?”  
  
“Oh, I was just wondering if they were cool guys. Stan’s really talented and we keep trying to convince him to go out for the school’s team,” Mike offers.  
  
“I see. Well, I think his talents would be unfortunately wasted there; they really only choose juniors and seniors to be on first string. That’s not the smartest move, in my opinion. They could really use the wily runners in the freshman and sophomores, but it’s not really my place to say anything, seeing as I’m not a baseball player.”   
  
“Oh, yeah? How long have you been playing football, then?” Eddie questions.  
  
“Oh, for forever,” he smiles. “My pop was on the Derry Central football team as well. It’s a bit of a family legacy.”  
  
“That’s cool!” Eddie says. “We all play down on the abandoned lot off Jackson Street, by the pharmacy. You know, Voigt Field?” Nick nods with a dopey grin.  
  
“That’s gnarly!” Nick says excitedly, and Richie snorts, muttering gnarly under his breath. Eddie pinches his thigh again where his hand is resting on top of it. Richie grimaces but keeps quiet. “What positions do you guys play?”   
  
“Well, Eddie here is our best runner. He thrives on the field, honestly,” Mike praises, to both Eddie and Richie’s smiles. “I play outfield usually because I’m good at climbing the fence and Hanscom is always knocking them out of the damn park. And Richie’s the catcher.”  
  
“Oh, wow, catcher! That’s a hard position, you must be really talented!” Nick says.  
  
“Well -- ”  
  
“You know, Nick, I _am_ talented. I’m the best damn catcher any of these folks have,” Richie brags.  
  
“Actually, Bev is pretty g--”  
  
“In fact, I’d say I’m Yogi Berra level,” Richie says, nose in the air.  
  
“Would you now?” Eddie laughs.   
  
“I would!” Richie insists, turning to him. “I’m the next Yogi Berra. Everyone thinks so.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, Trashmouth. We’re all in agreement that you are as talented as Yogi Berra,” Eddie says, deceptively serious, trying desperately to keep the smile off his face.  
  
“So, you’re a Yankees fan, too, Richie?” Nick asks. Richie scoffs.  
  
“No way. Yogi Berra was the only good thing those wimps ever had. I’m a loud and proud Boston Red Sox fan,” Richie crows, much to Nick’s mock-horror.   
  
“A _Red Sox_ fan?! No, absolutely not, I can’t work with you!” Nick cries, a smile on his face.  
  
“Well, then you’re gonna have to find another shadowcast, buddy, because we’re all Red Sox fans,” Richie smirks. Nick gasps, looking between Eddie and Mike.   
  
“Et tu, Brute?”   
  
Eddie smiles, nodding. “Yeah, we’re big on the underdog.”  
  
“I can see that, actually. That makes total sense,” Nick grins back. Richie suddenly wants to jump straight out of his skin and run as far as he can from this situation. They’re smiling at each other. Horrible.  
  
“Anyway, Nick, it was great to see you, but we really must be going. I have to walk this one home,” Richie says, squeezing Eddie’s shoulders.   
  
“Yeah, it was really nice seeing you guys, too!” Nick calls as Richie gets up, pulling Eddie up as well. He reaches into his pocket to pull out his wallet, but Eddie stops him.   
  
“Not this time, pal,” Eddie says, and Richie hates that he can’t use his pet names for Richie because _Nick_ is here. “I got it.”   
  
“Oh, c’mon, Eds, you got it last time! Let me!” Richie whines. He never likes Eddie to pay for anything, knowing the boy is working solely off of the money Sonia Kaspbrak allots him each week.  
  
Eddie leans in close and Richie instinctually does the same. “You’ve suffered enough tonight,” Eddie whispers. He pulls back, winks, and saunters up to the counter to pay for his and Richie’s tab. Richie groans, turning to Mike.  
  
“What am I going to do with him?” Richie wails. Mike smiles at him, shrugging.  
  
“Walk him home, I presume.”  
  
“Yeah,” Richie sighs, looking forlornly at Eddie as he walks back over.  
  
“You ready to go?” Eddie asks with a friendly smile.   
  
“For certain, good sir,” Richie crows in an Old English Voice, crooking his elbow. Eddie laughs, rolling his eyes, and slips his arm through the open space.  
  
“See you on Wednesday for rehearsal, Nick?” Eddie calls, waving to Mike and Nick. Nick nods. They both walk out, Richie turning to say something to Eddie that makes him giggle. Nick starts to get up, turning to Mike with a little smile on his face.  
  
“Are they…?” Nick trails off, but Mike knows exactly what he’s asking, and starts looking anywhere but Nick.  
  
“Um...” he starts, eyes shifting back and forth, but Nick cuts him off.  
  
“I mean, I’m straight, but my dad, he’s… I mean, it’s okay with me. If they are,” Nick says, giving Mike a weighted look. “You know, it’s okay. Nevermind. I’ll see you guys on Wednesday, alright?”  
  
Mike watches as Nick starts to walk to his own table, where presumably his dad is sitting, and Mike calls out to him. “Hey, Nick!” Nick turns back to him. “Are you friends with Henry Bowers?” It’s a question that they both know the meaning of; everyone knows what happened at Homecoming only a few weeks ago. The school is still reeling from the shock of Richie coming out of the closet on stage to shut up Henry Bowers. Richie is the first person to come out of the closet at Derry Central, but he certainly isn’t the only queer person; their group knows that well.   
  
Nick’s face twists in disgust. “That guy? No way. He’s on the football team, but I don’t jive with him.”  
  
Mike smiles, nodding, and getting up to go over to him. He claps him on the shoulder when Nick meets him halfway. “Okay. Have a good dinner, man.”  
  
“Thanks, Mike. It was good to see you.” Nick grabs his shoulder in return and they’re braided together for a moment before he walks over to sit down with his dad. Mike smiles at the scene: a father and son who seem genuinely happy to be with one another. He entertains the thought of what he’d be doing right now if his parents were still alive. He wonders what they’d be like - if they’d be okay with the fact that his skin prickles with electricity in the place where it made contact with Nick’s hand. He wonders if he’d even know any of his friends at all. He shakes his head minutely, physically ridding himself of those thoughts; it’s too hard to think about his parents most of the time, especially without emotional support. His smile grows as he walks over to the counter to settle his check.  
  
“You, too, Nick. You, too.” He laughs quietly to himself. “Richie is an _idiot_.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“Who invited him?” Richie groans a bit too loudly when he peers out the window and sees Nick standing on the Denbrough’s front porch, waiting to be let into the house.    
  
“He has to rehearse with us, babe - he’s a part of the cast, too!”  
  
“So is Paul! I’d much rather have him here than Boat Boy…” Richie grumbles.  
  
“Paul doesn’t need to rehearse anything,” Beverly chuckles. “He’s been running _Rocky_ at the Aladdin for forever, he could play any part with his hands tied behind his back…”     
  
“And keep your voice down,” Eddie shushes Richie hurriedly, jerking his head towards the wide open window just beside the door.   
  
“Oh, please,” Richie rolls his eyes, tossing an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders, “you think he heard that, Eds? With all that wind blowin’ in his ears out on the open sea?” Richie adopts a crotchety old fisherman’s Voice. “Why, that’s surely made the little guppy hard of hearin’…”  
  
“Hey, nice Quint impression,” Nick says, and Richie nearly jumps out of his skin, not realizing that Bill had already fetched the boy from outside and brought him into where the rest of the group is crowded into his living-room. _“Jaws_ is a classic.” Richie nods, mumbling something inaudibly and Eddie snickers under his breath, knowing that no matter how much Richie may not like Nick, he’d rather be caught dead than refute such a statement. “Thanks for having me over, guys - you have a really nice house, Bill!” Nick grins, and Bill smiles back warmly while Richie mimes vomiting behind Nick’s back.   
  
“Th-Thanks, Nick - we’re glad you could m-make it,” Bill replies.   
  
“Are we?” Richie mouths to the rest of the group, earning him a well-aimed kick to the shin from Mike, resulting in Richie yelping like a wounded animal and turning to slump against Eddie’s shoulder after sticking his tongue out at Mike childishly.  
  
“I think we should go over _Rose Tint My World / Don’t Dream It_ first since that’s the number that has most of us in it,” Beverly suggests, eyes scanning the room in case there are any objections. When she’s met with only content nods, she grins and leaps to her feet, clapping her hands together excitedly. Eddie, Nick, Mike, and Richie stand as well, following her into the center of the living room where Richie and Mike lift the coffee table and move it into the corner and out of their way.  
  
Beverly jabs the PLAY button on the CD player and soon Little Nell’s voice fills the room and Beverly sings along, dancing around the living room; she has seen the movie so many times that she knows the choreography by heart, and her friends all wolf-whistle as she circles the sofa, crooning dramatically to Bill and Stanley before sprawling across both of their laps as her verse came to an end.  
  
Mike’s verse is next, and though he isn’t as polished as Beverly in her performance, his almost robotic and stiff movements are nearly on par with the Rocky from the film, and he too receives some catcalls and one “Damn, Mikey!” from Richie, who wiggles his eyebrows at his friend, thinking the blush on Mike’s cheeks is brought on from his comment and not from how intensely Nick was watching Mike throughout his entire bit, so intensely in fact that Nick nearly misses his cue. Richie pounces all over that, hissing to Stanley, “I told you guys! How unprofessional!” but Stanley just shoves Richie, shushing him as Nick catches up with the verse seamlessly, and the rest of the group smile watching him.    
  
Nick is everything they aren’t - a well-off child legacy and the first freshman to make it on Derry Central’s varsity football team in three decades. He should be running from the hills, far away from this group of misfits. But watching him cut loose in Bill’s living room and dance along with everybody, grabbing Beverly’s hand and hoisting her off the couch to twirl her around as her laughter peels like a bell, they realize that maybe he’s a misfit, too, that maybe that’s why he sought them out in the first place. Nick’s verse comes to an end, and he takes a bow as the whole group erupts into boisterous applause; even Richie claps, but just twice, nothing more, before folding his arms across his chest with a frown.    
  
Next comes Eddie, and he isn’t five seconds into his first line before Richie is collapsing onto the sofa, head in his hands, whining, “Too much - thought I could handle it - too much…” as Eddie twirls around the room, ending up in Richie’s lap, who groans loudly into his hands when he feels his boyfriend’s arms coil around his neck as he sings quietly along with Susan Sarandon, his lips dangerously close to Richie’s ear.      
  
“You alright there, Tozier? You gonna make it through your verse?” Ben teases as Eddie rolls off of Richie’s lap, and Richie’s head snaps up as if he’d forgotten where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. Thankfully, there’s a slight instrumental break between Janet and Frank-N-Furter’s verses, and Richie is able to spring to his feet just as his begins, but before he can really get into it, the CD player sputters, cutting the music off entirely.  
  
“Damn that stupid thing!” Bill groans, standing up to smack his hand upside the CD player. “S-S-Sorry, Rich -- ”  
  
“Oh, no worries, Billy Boy,” Richie promises, eyes glinting mischievously behind his glasses. “The show must go on!” he shouts, throwing his arms out, and then, to the surprise of everybody in the room, Richie begins to sing - actually sing, not his typical loud, off-key bellowing that they’re all so used to suffering through during their late-nights at Sue’s.  
  
Stanley’s jaw is on the floor and Beverly is quite literally pummeling Ben’s arm, her smile growing wider and wider across her face until it threatens to split it completely in half. Mike is absolutely speechless and Nick looks like his eyes are in danger of falling out of his head while all Bill can do is chuckle quietly, shaking his head at his friend as he struts around the room, hips swaying in perfect time to the music only he can hear in his head.  
  
Eddie is the only one who doesn’t seem shocked by Richie’s voice, and this is probably owed to the fact that Richie sings all the time when they’re alone, especially when they’re alone because he knows that Eddie loves his voice. Richie catches his eye as he sings and winks at him, grinning when Eddie’s face burns beneath his gaze.  
  
“You’re such a ham, Tozier,” Stanley barks and Richie blows him as kiss as he brings the number home, arms splayed wildly. “That was good, guys - but what are we gonna do without any music for the rest of the day? I don’t know if anybody else is up to all that singing…”  
  
“We can just r-run the lines,” Bill reminds and Ben starts with a quiet shout.  
  
“I almost forgot!” he says, digging into his backpack. “I ran to the library before coming over here and printed copies of the script for everyone!” Ben takes one of the scripts for himself, placing it on his lap, and then hands the pile of stapled papers to Beverly, who follows suit before passing it around the whole room.  
  
“How considerate of you, Haystack - thanks a million, buddy,” Richie grins as he retakes his place beside Eddie on the sofa, taking the script Eddie hands him and thumbing through it leisurely. “Where shall we start, lads?”  
  
  
The group makes it about a third of the way through the script, bouncing around all the while to give everybody a chance to really get into the mold of their character before Richie tosses his script down onto the coffee table.   
  
“This is boring,” he whines. “I think we should run another song.”  
  
“We can’t do that without a CD player, Rich,” Beverly reminds, and Nick perks up from where he is sitting cross-legged on the floor, elbows propped on his knees.  
  
“I don’t know about that - mine and Eddie’s number in the beginning is basically spoken through, we could kind of run it that way, without singing it. If you wanted to do that, I mean…” Nick says with a shrug, and Eddie nods, but not before Richie chimes in.  
  
“You want to run _Dammit Janet!_ without any music?” Richie snorts, and Eddie goes to chastise him but is cut-off once again, this time by a much softer voice.  
  
“What’s ‘dammit’ mean?” The whole group whirls around to find Georgie perched at the foot of the steps, his chin resting on the heel of his hand. None of them have any idea when he joined them or how much he heard of their conversation.  
  
“Georgie!” Bill all but shrieks, hopping over the back of the sofa to kneel in front of his little brother. “How long have you been sitting there?”  
  
“Not long! I was playing Legos in my room, but then I heard everybody talking so I came downstairs!” The little boy smiles up at Bill. “Is _Dammit Janet_ a game? Can I play? Please, Billy! Please, please, please!”  
  
“Georgie, don’t say that - that’s a bad word,” Bill’s voice is gentle but stern.  
  
Georgie sputters defensively, “But Richie said it!” Bill places his hand on the boy’s shoulder.  
  
“Richie is an idiot.”  
  
“Hey!” Richie yells from the living room. “Idiot is a bad word, too, Billiam!”  
  
“Georgie, go on back upstairs -- ” Bill starts to say, but his voice falters when Georgie looks up at him with a pout, his lower lip trembling.  
  
“But Billy, I wanna play! You always let me play with you!” Bill frowns, unsettled by the look of unadulterated betrayal in his little brother’s eyes.   
  
“I’m sorry, buddy - I’ll p-play with you later, okay? I promise,” Bill insists, but Georgie still looks devastated, his head drooping.  
  
“Hey, little man,” Stanley calls, and Georgie’s head snaps up. “C’mere,” he beckons, motioning for Georgie to join him on the couch. Stanley lifts the little boy onto his lap. “Georgie, we have a project that we have to work on, and while we’d all love your help, it’s very important that we do it all alone, okay? If you go on and play with your Legos till we’re all done, then Billy and I will take you for some ice cream later on, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Georgie concedes, giggling when Stanley ruffles his hair lovingly. “Can I get a big ice cream cone?!”  
  
Stanley chuckles. “The biggest one they’ve got, little man. Promise.” They shake on it, grinning at one another, and Stanley hands Georgie off to Bill, who hugs the little boy tightly to his chest, only breathing again when Georgie hugs him back fiercely.  
  
“You’re not too mad at me, are you, sport?” Bill asks, heart stopping when Georgie doesn’t respond for a moment, but then the little boy giggles and shakes his head.  
  
“No, silly Billy - I’m not mad!” Georgie promises, his smile returned to his little round face.   
  
Bill sighs, relieved. “Good. I love you - go build a cool spaceship,” he says.  
  
He places Georgie back on the steps, and as soon as his little feet make contact with the carpet, he takes off, barrelling back up towards his bedroom and calling, “Love you, too, Billy!” over his shoulder before slamming his door behind him.  
  
  
  
Richie’s worst nightmare comes true in the form of a minute and forty-second long scene that he has been spending every waking moment since Nick’s casting trying to forget about. He looks around at his friends, pleading with his eyes as they near the part in the script where Frank-N-Furter seduces Brad, and when he’s met with nothing but encouraging, expectant smiles, Richie puffs out a long sigh and slaps a smile on his face, deciding that if he has to do this, he might as well make it interesting.  
  
He takes just one more look at the script in his lap before turning to Eddie, who nods at him -- it’s okay, his eyes say, and Richie feels just a little bit better about the whole ordeal as he crawls over to where Nick is on the living room floor and drops his voice low into a perfect imitation of Frank-N-Furter. Nick’s eyes widen when Richie all but climbs on top of him, purring his lines so convincingly there could be no way to tell that every inch of Richie is revolted. He cards a hand through Nick’s shaggy hair as he plays his role, fighting the urge to wrinkle his nose when he feels how dry it is from spending half of his life submerged in saltwater.  
  
Nick sputters a response, thrown off by how committedly Richie has delved into this rehearsal, and when his line leaves his lips rushed and in a higher octave than normal, Richie scoffs and untangles himself from the other boy, shaking his head and muttering something about _unprofessional_ and _can’t believe I’m working with an amateur._ Richie looks up and immediately finds Eddie’s eyes, and they're smoldering, burning with something that looks like a mixture of jealousy and desire. Richie sends a casual smirk Eddie’s way and the fire in his irises spreads throughout the rest of his body, setting him ablaze.  
  
Ben’s voice cuts through the haze. “That was pretty good for a first run, guys,” he says, and Richie rolls his eyes. Sure, _he_ was pretty good. But Nick looked like he was going through some sort of internal struggle the closer Richie had gotten to him. “Was there anything else we wanted to run through today?”   
  
“Ooh!” Stanley shouts suddenly, hopping to his feet. “I wanna practice sliding down the banister! One of the most iconic moments for Magenta in the film is her entrance when she slides down the banister of Frank-N-Furter’s castle and I wanna perfect it!”  
  
“Oh, my God, Stan…” Bill sighs, shaking his head with a bemused grin. “Please don’t kill yourself in my house, my m-mom will have a fucking h-h-heart attack…”  
  
“No worries, Denbrough,” Stanley insists, crossing his index fingers over his heart, “I used to do it all the time when I was little in my own house…” He winks at Bill quickly before heading up the stairs, the rest of the group following right behind him; he climbs the steps, stopping mid-way, and then he hooks one of his long legs over the railing, putting his back to his friends.  
  
“Be careful up there, Stanley - you bust your butt and I’ll have to carry the whole baseball team on my back!” Richie calls, throwing an arm around Eddie’s shoulders, and Stanley flips him off without even turning around, which makes the whole group of them laugh.  
  
It happens very quickly. Stanley shouts his line to the high heavens, cawing, _“You’re lucky! He’s lucky! I’m lucky! We’re all lucky!”_ and he lets go of the railing, sliding backwards with a maniacal laugh, but as he gathers speed reaching the bottom, he loses his balance and topples over the side. Bill catches his upper-half at the last second, hooking his arms under Stanley’s armpits, and the force of Stanley’s body hitting his sends both of them falling to the floor with a thud.  
  
Bill is laughing nervously from where Stanley has him pinned to the floor. “You fucking idiot,” he breathes when Stanley twists to look down at him, a grin of his own on his face, and without thinking, Bill leans up and takes Stanley’s face into his hands, kissing him fully and without discretion.  
  
The kiss lasts a few, breathless moments for them, and then Stanley quickly backs away, eyes wide, looking down at him. Bill’s face twists in confusion, and then he remembers. Nick. All of them now look at Nick, hanging on every movement and twitch his face makes. Stanley quickly scrambles up, pulling Bill with him mindlessly, as if he would do it whether or not they were dating, and it makes Beverly smile slightly before concern pulls on her features once again.   
  
Stanley is, to put it plainly, fucking terrified of how Nick will react. They all know Bill was Homecoming Queen and got his fair share of stares, jeers and avoidances from the student body after that. But he didn’t mind because they didn’t know the truth; that he is bisexual and falling deeply for Stanley Uris. Many people in school now think Bill and Richie are dating. It makes sense: they’re best friends, they hang out together separately from the group often. And whoever doesn’t think that still has Bill and Beverly on their radar. It keeps Stanley out of the limelight, which is what he wants. Stanley doesn’t like the darkness of the closet; he feels like he’s flying blind, a failure because he can’t hold his own boyfriend’s hand. But he knows how his father would react. He saw how Henry Bowers reacted to Richie and, by extension, Bill; hatred is a tool some use to control. Stanley’s father is so staunch, so angry, so demanding and ruthless with him, he can’t imagine a straight-cut religious man like him would be pleased with Stanley’s sexuality.  
  
As Bill takes an unconscious step in front of Stanley who he could feel was shaking beside him, he realizes this is his house, this is his and Stanley’s safe place to hide, this is where Georgie grew up and learned to walk and read and love. He can’t see that marred by the hatred he knows is prevalent in the society they live in. He can’t watch Stanley’s one solace crumble. They all see that hatred enough in school, in Stanley’s home. He knows it would be crushing for the rest of the group as well, most of them queer in some way, to see that hatred in someone they thought they could trust.   
  
They all watch as Nick’s face goes from blank to confused. “I thought you were with…” Nick points from Bill to Beverly and back again. They both shake their heads.   
  
“I-I-I’m, uh,” Bill tries, wishing so desperately he had anyone’s hand to hold. “I’m bisexual, I g-g-guess. I like b-both.”   
  
“Yeah,” Beverly says, their heads swiveling to her. “Me, too.”   
  
Eddie, Ben, and Bill’s eyes widen as they realize, shit, Beverly just came out to not only Nick, but a few of the rest of them as well. Beverly sees it as a good of a time as any, maybe better. It never really came up before, but she was never hiding it; she was outward in her appreciation of Magenta only a few weeks ago. She figured it wasn’t all too important to tell the group; she knew if she started to have feelings for a girl, they would be okay with it. She told Eddie when he came out to her, and that was the first time she’d ever said it out loud. But then after telling Ben and Bill back in the spring, it didn’t feel as big or scary as she’d originally thought it to be.  
  
Nick looks down at the carpet for a moment, processing all of this new information, sorting through this new information about his new friends in his head, and then looks back up with a smile. “Okay.”  
  
“O--... Okay?” Bill says, voice wavering. He and Stanley still haven’t moved, Stanley’s back pressed into the banister so he doesn’t fall over from how badly his knees are buckling out of fear. “A-All of that’s… okay with you?”   
  
“Yeah!” Nick says, smile fading. “Oh. Oh no. You all thought I wouldn’t be. Oh, I promise, I’m not some meathead jock like the rest of the team,” he stresses, looking especially over at Stanley. He hears quite a bit in the locker room, usually terrible, disgusting things about the cheerleaders, but occasionally Nick will catch a comment or two about one of the people crowded around him. He’s heard Henry Bowers and his cronies make jokes about Stanley’s religion, Ben’s weight, call both Eddie and Richie every gay slur under the sun, even before Homecoming, but since then, it’s only seemed to get worse; he’s heard him spread horrific rumors about Beverly, spew vile, racist bullshit about Mike and even mock Bill’s stutter. And standing here now in front of them all, Nick feels ashamed that he’s never stood up to the quarterback, that he’s never told him to stop talking about people he doesn’t even know. Nick is the youngest boy on the team, and he’s always felt like the others would be quick to follow Bowers if a brawl ever did break out between their leader and anyone else, but for the first time, Nick is starting to realize that standing by and letting something be said can be just as bad as saying it yourself. He makes a silent promise to himself that he will not stand by any longer. “I don’t… I don’t think the way they do. I swear. My dad’s gay. Most of the town knows that’s why my mom left, I just assumed you guys did, too. But yeah, that’s the reason. My mom figured it out when I was little and she left him and I -- I just grew up knowing that it wasn’t a bad thing, I guess. It’s not a big deal for me like it is for some other folks, making a fuss about stuff that shouldn’t be their business. If any of you guys are gay or… or bisexual…” He says the word with trepidation, like it’s foreign in his mouth, but soldiers on regardless of his own confusion. “That’s just fine with me.”   
  
It seems like everyone starts to breathe a little easier after Nick sends an encouraging nod in Bill and Stanley’s direction, the latter grappling for Bill’s hand now that he knows he can, and Bill twists their fingers together, squeezing back when Stanley’s grip tightens. Richie realizes his arm is still around Eddie from where he was clutching his shoulder during the entire exchange, and he’s certain pulling away would further incriminate them both. _Be natural, Rich,_ he chides to himself. _What would Trashmouth do?_ And Trashmouth, of course, would laugh. Richie begins to chuckle, quietly at first, growing deep in his chest until it fills the whole room, and he wipes a tear from his eye.  
  
“Englehart, you can’t tell me you joined a _Rocky Horror Picture Show_ shadowcast and actually thought we were all straight?” Richie cackles, and Mike bops his shoulder with his fist when he hears Eddie suck in a sharp breath, terror in his eyes as he wonders where Richie is going with this. Richie looks back at Eddie, gives him a reassuring smile that says, _No way, Eds - I’d never do that to you,_ and Eddie’s shoulders relax.  
  
“Well, I knew you weren't,” Nick replies, and Ben snorts. “I don't think anybody’s gonna forget that speech at Homecoming for a long time…”  
  
Richie grins. “Just the way I like it.”   
  
“Wait,” Beverly says quietly, looking at Nick with an unreadable expression. “Englehart? Like… Nick, Kate’s boyfriend, Englehart?”   
  
“The one and only,” he smiles proudly before his face screws up in confusion. “Wait, how do you know Kate?”   
  
“Oh, we’re friends,” Beverly smiles, a practiced thing that Nick wouldn’t be able to tell is fake but Eddie spots the falseness in immediately. His brain is clicking through the variables, and suddenly, he realizes - Kate is Beverly’s crush. She’s in a shadowcast with her crush’s boyfriend.  
  
 _Oh._  
  
“Well, that’s great! You should come to our party then!” Nick smiles, bouncing as he always seems to when he gets excited.  
  
“Oh, well, actually, Kate already invited me!” she says. She looks around at the group fleetingly. “All of us, actually.”  
  
“We were invited to the Halloween of a girl we don’t know? How did you even swing that, Beverly?” Richie laughs. She shrugs, avoiding Nick’s gaze.  
  
“I have my ways, I guess.”  
  
“Well, then it’s settled! To Nick’s for Halloween!” Richie cries, pointing a finger in the air.  
  
“Yeah,” Beverly chuckles. She had been hoping to avoid telling the group about the party and claim to Kate that they had made other plans without her knowledge, but it seems like there’s no getting out of this anymore. The situation just keeps getting stickier, and Beverly isn’t sure she likes it. “To Nick’s for Halloween.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The group decides to come to Nick’s Halloween party together as Kate suggested, figuring that there’s strength against the football team in numbers. They ring the doorbell of the modestly-sized house and the door opens to a sweet-looking girl around their age dressed as Velma from  _ Scooby-Doo. _ She’s small, a bit plump in build, and athletic, like she works out often. She has a sweet, inviting smile. All of them feel immediately more at ease the moment they see her, especially Mike and Beverly who both smile broadly at her.    
  
“Hi there! You must be Nick’s  _ Rocky Horror _ friends! I’m Katherine Thackeray, but everyone calls me Kate. Come on in, it’s cold!” She moves out of the way and shakes a little, imitating a shiver. Richie laughs and they all come inside the foyer, Beverly trying to hide behind Stanley so she isn’t seen by Kate. But Kate isn’t looking at Beverly - no, she’s looking at Mike. “Mike Hanlon! Well, I’ll be!”   
  
“Hi, Kate!” Mike smiles, leaning in to give her a hug. “How’re you doing tonight?”   
  
“I’m great! Glad to know Nick’s in such capable hands as yours for the shadowcast!” she smiles, elbowing him lightly in the side. Mike blushes and nods. “Well, let me take your coats, folks! We’re putting them in Mr. Englehart’s room,” she explains, but then she looks Ben and Stanley up and down slowly, taking in their T-Bird leather jackets. “Unless of course they’re a part of your costumes,” she giggles brightly, and both boys smile at her.   
  
The others begin to take their coats off, except Eddie, who’s clutching his down wind breaker to his body like a lifeline. They’d all decided to do a group costume (“ _ Grease _ or I  _ walk!” _ Richie had shouted, slamming his fist on their lunch table). No one had any objections, so they had divvied up the roles amongst them; Mike would be Cool Rider (“ _ Grease 2 _ is just as valid a source material!”), Stanley and Bill would go as Kenickie and Rizzo, Ben and Beverly as Doody and Frenchie, and naturally, Richie had demanded that he go as Danny with Eddie as his Sandy. Eddie had been so excited by the thought that no one could deny him that. Beverly had even offered to make him his own dress for the occasion. He had come over and got a fitting for it and everything.   
  
When they all came to Beverly’s house that night to get ready, Eddie stared at himself in the mirror for a long time. He looked so… sweet. He liked it. He was comfortable enough in his gender, but he felt a sort of freedom in looking completely unlike himself. The ghost that knocks and rattles at the edges of himself felt at peace for a little while. He came out into the living room to see all of his friends dressed in their greaser clothes, and Beverly already dressed as Frenchie wolf-whistled. Richie, however, just stared, heavy-lidded.  _ I don’t think I can go to this party and keep it PG, _ he said. Eddie eyed his thighs in the leather pants he was wearing and said,  _ tell me about it, stud. _ Richie laughed and suddenly, Eddie was losing his breath.   
  
_ The party, _ he realized suddenly. It isn’t going to be just any gathering with the seven of them. The entire football team would be there. Water polo players, cheerleaders, baseball players, all of these people that had been standing with Henry Bowers and did nothing about it when he screamed what he did at the Homecoming Dance. And, of course, Bowers himself is quarterback on the football team. Eddie had taken Richie aside and told him his fears, his worries about wearing a dress in front of them. Richie told him that he wouldn’t let anything happen to him, that it would all be okay. Eddie did his best to believe him, but he was still here, faced with a stranger’s confused stare, clutching at his coat.   
  
Kate eventually smiles and moves on through the house, motioning for the group to follow her without asking for Eddie’s coat and Eddie breathes a sigh of relief. Someone ghosts their way past him and their lips press into his hair inconspicuously. He can tell it’s Richie from the smell of his lavender conditioner and he smiles at his shoes, following the rest of his friends.   
  
When she turns, though, she notices Beverly’s unmistakable fiery curls peeking out from behind Stanley and she squints dramatically, cupping a hand over her eyes. “Is that the Beverly Marsh?”   
  
Beverly chuckles, stepping out from behind Stanley, and nods almost reluctantly. Kate’s heart drops into her stomach at the obvious nervousness in her expression and all hope that she’d had for the evening of maybe getting to see Beverly’s happy, excited smile that she’s grown so deeply fond of shatters along with her heart on the way down.    
  
“Yeah, it’s me. Hi, Kay.” Beverly grabs her elbow awkwardly and none of the Losers think they have ever seen Beverly Marsh look this insecure before in their lives. It’s disconcerting for them all.   
  
“Hi, Beverly. I didn’t know you were part of Nick’s shadowcast, too,” she breathes, eyes wide. When Beverly bobs her head in confirmation, avoiding all eye contact with Kate, she realizes that she needs to push aside her own nervousness and make this easier for Beverly. She isn’t sure why Beverly seems so uncomfortable, but she is, after all, the host. Part of her duties are in making sure all guests are enjoying themselves. So she puts on a bubbly smile and changes the subject entirely. “And I didn’t know you knew Mike! Fancy that!”   
  
“Yeah, I’ve known this one almost as long as I’ve known you, Kate,” Mike laughs, reeling Beverly in by the neck and ruffling her hair gently. Beverly smiles up at him, laughing, and Kate’s once-broken heart mends at the sight of two people she likes very much being so close.   
  
“Well, let me show you guys around!” Kate smiles, sweeping her hands when she walks out of the foyer. “So, this is the living room - the rest of the group is in the kitchen where the food is, the utter barbarians,” she jokes, and then she notices Nick’s dad standing nearby and runs up to him, “and this lovely man, is Cal Englehart!” Kate goes up on her toes and hooks an arm around Cal’s neck, ruffling his hair. He laughs deeply, closing his eyes and shaking his head.   
  
“Hello, folks. I’m your pilot for the evening, but I’m not going to be around much,” Cal says. He’s dressed as Chief Brody from  _ Jaws _ and he’s a tall, built man, the kind of muscular you get to from working hard every day. He’s tan, on the younger side, and his eyes sparkle when he looks at the group of them.    
  
“Thank you so much for allowing us to trash your beautiful home, Mr. Englehart,” Richie says. “And sick costume!” Mike elbows him, sticking out his hand for Cal to shake.   
  
“We won’t trash it, please do ignore him, sir,” Mike says, smiling. Cal shakes his hand in a firm grip, laughing.    
  
“I’ll pay it no mind,” he says with as much faux-seriousness as he can muster. Even still, a smile slips though. The rest of them smile, too, Cal’s grin being so infectious that none of them can help it.  _ “Grease, _ huh?” he guesses, and they all nod happily. “You kids really pulled out all the stops,” he insists, nodding impressively towards Beverly, whose hair is sprayed with artificial pink hairspray, and Bill who has a cardigan wrapped around his shoulders and a pair of black sunglasses perched on his head. “Enjoy the party, folks. Go find Nick, he’s probably in the kitchen fixing up the pizza ro--”   
  
_ “Pizza rolls!” _ Richie shrieks, making his way to the kitchen and weaving his way through the crowd of football players dressed as zombie football players.  _ How inventive, _ Eddie thinks. He rolls his eyes.   
  
“Sorry, Mr. Englehart, my friend’s stomach is bigger than his manners.”   
  
“Oh, that’s just fine,” Cal laughs, patting him lightly on the back of the shoulder. “Go join him. And please, all of you, call me Cal. Only my suppliers call me Mr. Englehart, and even with them, I try to insist that they don’t.”   
  
Eddie laughs, and for some reason, Cal’s request that he go by his first name with the kids feels far more genuine than Maggie Tozier’s ever did. “Okay, Cal. It was nice to meet you! I’m Eddie Kaspbrak.”   
  
“Nice to meet you, Eddie Kaspbrak,” Cal smiles. They all make their way to the kitchen’s doorway and stop there when they see just how many people are stuffed into the small room. They manage to spot Richie housing five pizza rolls into his mouth at once, complaining through a stuffed mouth how hot they are. Eddie’s eyes roll heavenward and he goes inside to make sure his boyfriend doesn’t burn the inside of his mouth on hot cheese. But just as he enters, someone spills a bottle of coke onto the ground at Eddie’s feet. They all cheer except for the Losers, Nick and Kate. Eddie finds Nick’s eyes and mouths  _ mop? _ Nick nods and flicks his hand towards himself and Eddie follows him towards the underside the sink where they keep the cleaning supplies.    
  
“Hi, by the way,” Eddie says, smiling at Nick where they’re both crouching on the floor.    
  
“Hi yourself!” Nick smiles back, holding the mop in his hand. “You sure you want to do this? It’s my house, I can easily -- ”   
  
“No, no, I, uh -- I like cleaning,” Eddie answers simply. Nick shrugs and nods.   
  
“Suit yourself, Janet,” he teases, handing over the mop and Ajax.   
  
“Asshole,” Eddie says, the infamous callback falling easily off his tongue, not even realizing that Nick isn’t one of his trusted friends that he can use these jabs with. But Nick just laughs, and Eddie smiles, glad they’ve found a friend like him. He heads over to the mess, excusing himself and making himself as small as he can. Henry Bowers, who is tossing M&Ms up into the air, trying to catch them in his mouth and dismally missing, sneers at him when he passes.    
  
“What are you doing here, queerboy?” Eddie has the apology ready on his tongue when Nick steps in.   
  
“I invited him, Bowers, now shut it.” The kitchen is noticeably quieter.   
  
“Why? He your daddy’s boyfriend?” Nick rolls his eyes with a disgusted look on his face and Richie begins hovering around the outskirts of the situation, ready for a fight.   
  
“In my house, you are respectful to my guests and my father, Bowers. You were invited because you are my teammate, but I can easily revoke that invitation.” Nick promises, jaw clenched so tightly the bone is almost in danger of breaking through his skin.   
  
“What, you want me to leave? Please. I’m the life of this party. If I leave, so does everyone else,” Henry scoffs.   
  
“Not everyone,” Richie comments under his breath, but loud enough so that everyone can hear him. Henry whips around.    
  
“What did you say, Tozier? Louder now, c’mon, for the whole class.”   
  
“I said I would rather be at any party you’re not at, Bowers. That’s what I said,” Richie says, voice reedy and dangerous, taking a step closer to Henry. But as he says this, Cal steps into the room.   
  
“Oh, wow, look at that!” Cal cries. “What a mess. And, look, Eddie, you already got the mop out. What a helpful kid you are. I’ll take it from here, guys. Eddie, why don’t you help me out in here? Everyone else, you all go into the living room. Don’t want anyone to slip.” He looks directly at Richie as he says this, and Richie feels his body language go from rigid to defeated as he slinks into the living room.   
  
“Here, why don’t I take you guys upstairs and show you my room,” Nick offers. Richie perks up. Anything to avoid Jess, Eddie thinks to himself, knowing full well that where the football players lurk, so the cheerleaders do follow. They haven’t spotted her yet, but Eddie knows it’s only a matter of time before they do.    
  
While Nick, Kate and the Losers, sans Eddie, go upstairs to set up a game of beer pong, and the rest of the crowd goes outside to have a cigarette, Eddie and Cal start to clean up the mess made.   
  
“So,” Cal starts, “the coat.” Fuck. “It’s a nice costume, you know. Freezing Cold Boy. You could have a freeze ray. It’d be the next big comic book hit.”   
  
“Yeah,” Eddie laughs. “A sexy hit with the folks who want to see a bit of muscle.” Eddie props the mop up against the table and pretends to pump his biceps. The two of them are in stitches, but once the laughter dies down and Eddie picks the mop back up, he sighs. “I, uh… We planned our Halloween costumes before I knew we were coming to a party with…”    
  
“With football players?” Eddie makes a face.   
  
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes hastily. “You know, most of them don’t like me and my friends very much. Not Nick! Nick is great, honest. It’s just… Bowers is a bit of a creep.”    
  
Cal nods, putting out his hand so that Eddie can hand the mop over to him and he gives the Ajax to Eddie. He ponders Eddie’s words for a moment before nodding decisively. “You know, Eddie, when I was in school, people called me those kinds of names Henry called you as well.” Eddie’s eyebrows shot up.   
  
“Really? But weren’t you on the football team?”   
  
“Yes, I was. I was the quarterback, in fact. But before that, when I was young, people called me those terrible slurs. And I knew, deep down, that they were right. I was queer. I was gay. So I decided I was going to hide and stuff that part of me as far away as I could. I used to be slim and a bit on the weak side. So the summer before high school, I bulked up and I forced my father who was a football player himself for Derry Central to teach me everything he could about the sport. And because I really was a talented player and so was my father, I made it on the team. And those bullies forgot about the slurs and called me old  _ sport _ and  _ champ _ instead. But I didn’t forget about the slurs and I didn’t forget about my sexuality. I couldn’t.”    
  
“Did you tell your father? About… About you? And your sexuality?” Eddie asks, desperately hoping for one answer, but knowing in his heart the truth.    
  
“No, never. He would’ve… He probably wouldn’t have been very accepting, knowing him.” Cal remembers viscerally all the slurs his father threw at the late Adrian Mellon, saying that he ‘got what was coming to him if he wanted to shove his gayness in people’s faces like that.’ He considers telling Eddie this, about Adrian, but he thinks leaving that part of the story out would probably be for the best. He wants Adrian to be remembered as fondly as possible and doesn’t think it’s necessary to bring up old words from a man who’s been six feet underground almost as long as his son’s been alive. “He died when I was 19 and I took over the business right after that, so… it all worked out, I suppose.” Cal says this with a sad smile. Eddie nods, looking downcast at the spill, working on mopping it up so Cal doesn’t see the tears in his eyes. He knows his own mother would never accept him as well, and his heart breaks for the both of them.   
  
“I’m… I’m sorry, Cal. I know, if I told my mom I’m…” Eddie is still staring at the ground. He’s not even mopping anymore, just standing there, shaking while clutching the mop, but he knows he can trust this man. He’s gay himself, has been out for so long, could be a real person to trust. And Eddie trusts Nick, so why shouldn’t he trust Cal? Cal looks up from where he’s pouring Ajax on the floor and gives him a kind, sad smile.   
  
“I’m sorry, Eddie. I wish the world could be less provincial.”   
  
“Prov…” Eddie tries, trailing off.   
  
“Close-minded,” Cal answers. “Scared.” Eddie nods. He looks away and lets out a shaky breath. He just came out to a virtual stranger and the world didn’t collapse. In fact, he feels freer. He feels  _ good. _ _   
_   
“When I was in high school, I had a girlfriend, a beard,” Cal explains. “But she didn’t know that’s what she was, and when she told me she was pregnant during our senior year of high school, I knew I had to be there for her. There was no other option. I’d always wanted to be a father and a family man, and I knew there was no option for me to be with a man and have a family at the same time back in the late 60s, so I accepted my fate and I married her. My ex-wife did love me, and I really truly did love her. She was an incredible woman, and Nick’s fighting spirit? That’s all Jane. But when I came out to her, I didn’t expect the backlash, the anger, the resentment. Maybe I should’ve. She said she would’ve been whatever I wanted as long as I hadn’t lied to her. It was the mistrust that she couldn’t take. She needed a fresh start away from the life built on a lie. So, that night, when Nick was only a few months old, she packed her bags and she left for college without us. And it’s been me and Nick ever since.” Eddie lets out a breath. They both know why Cal is telling Eddie this story, but neither are admitting it out loud. For that, Eddie is grateful.    
  
“I built a good life for us. I took over my father’s business. Most of the town knows about me and my sexuality and it doesn’t completely affect my sales. My life is good with me and Nick. But it was built on a lie and it didn’t need to be. Nick told me about your friends, Stanley and Bill. I’m so glad he has friends who are so outside the societal norm. And… I just want you to know that it’s okay to be that way. It’s hard, to hear those names. It pushed me further into the closet almost certainly. But Nick’s presence in my life, knowing I could raise my son any way I damn well pleased, knowing I could raise him to be tolerant and kind and an honest, good-hearted, decent man, that gave me the courage to be honest with myself, my family and my community.”    
  
Eddie’s close to tears by the end of this speech, but he’s smiling up at Cal. He sniffs, wiping at his ruddy cheeks, and laughs a bit. “I’m a mess, look at me. I’m never like this, I promise.”   
  
“It’s okay, Eddie. Emotions are not a sign of weakness.” Eddie nods, remembering he said something similar to Richie on Thanksgiving. He reaches for a paper towel on the counter and blows his nose delicately. He throws the tissue in the trash and laughs again.   
  
“I’ve never come out to someone this quickly. Not even Nick knows,” Eddie says, a bit shocked himself.    
  
“That’s okay, Eddie. Take your time coming out to whoever you need or want to come out to. It’s your process and your sexuality, not anyone else’s, not even a potential partner’s. It’s entirely up to you who you tell. I didn’t come out for anybody else and I don’t suggest that for others. I came out for myself because I thought it was going to make my life better.” Eddie nods again.   
  
“I’m scared to say it,” he says, voice small.   
  
“I was, too, for a very long time. People take our words and try to make them terrible to us. My advice? Try practicing saying it in the mirror when you’re home alone. Just to yourself. Get used to the word being yours,” Cal says, smiling encouragingly. He stands up, opening the closet where the mop goes and taking it from Eddie, returning it to its rightful place and putting the Ajax back, too. “Well, it looks like we’re done. Want to go find your friends?”   
  
Eddie pauses, weighing his options, before flinging himself onto Cal briefly. Cal laughs heartily, patting Eddie’s back before Eddie lets go.   
  
“Do you think you could take my coat?” Eddie asks, unzipping his coat to reveal the dress that Beverly made him. Cal smiles and nods.    
  
“Of course. And, Eddie?” Eddie looks up at Cal who’s smiling down at him kindly. “I was right. I was happier and freer when I came out.”   
  
Eddie smiles back at him and exits the room and goes upstairs to find his friends, varying states of drunk, playing beer pong. Beverly and Richie are playing against Stanley and Mike and it looks like Beverly is extremely cross with Richie. Eddie is unsurprised, knowing how bad Richie is bad at games of hand-eye coordination.   
  
“Hey, guys,” Eddie says, entering the room, and everyone turns, eyes lighting up to see that Eddie has taken off his coat.   
  
“Look at meeee, I’m Sandra Deeeee, lousy with virgiiiinity!” Richie sings, albeit poorly, swinging his hips as he walks over to Eddie, arms out. Eddie bats his hands away that are grabbing at him.   
  
“Stop it, ya freak, go play your games.” Richie shakes his head.   
  
“Nope, it’s time, you guys.” Everyone groans.   
  
“You’re not actually going to d-d-do it, are ya, Rich?” Bill asks. Richie nods vehemently at him.   
  
“Oh, I’m definitely going to do it,” he says, clearing off the remaining beer cups. “We were going to win anyway.”   
  
“That’s utter bullshit, you loser!” Stanley shouts. “You were fucking tanking and you know it! This is a distraction tactic and I won’t stand for it!”   
  
“Oh, please, you’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first,” Richie snorts derisively, setting the last of the cups on the nightstand and directing Beverly and Mike to the side of the table.   
  
“I can’t believe I’m helping you with this…” Beverly sighs, shaking her head.   
  
“Well, I’m not! Find someone else to help you fall to your death!” Mike exclaims.   
  
“What does he mean fall to your death, Richie?” Eddie says through gritted teeth. Richie flashes him a smile.   
  
“Just Bevs-erly, then! No matter!” Together and ungracefully, they get him up onto the table. Once he’s up there, he points to Kate, and shouts, “Hit it, Katie!” She shakes her head, laughing, and presses PLAY on a boombox that Eddie is shocked to find on Nick’s bedroom desk.   
  
“What! What the fuck is going on?” Eddie yells. Suddenly,  _ Sandy _ from Grease begins playing on the speakers and Eddie tips his head back and laughs as Richie begins delicately jiving on the table. “I honestly cannot bel--”   
  
“Shh! I gotta sing to you, Eds!”   
  
“Oh, my god,” Eddie laughs, motioning for him to continue. “Fine, go ahead.”    
  
_ Stranded at the drive-in, branded a fool, _ _   
_ _ What will they say Monday at school? _ _   
_ _ Eddie, can’t you see, I’m in misery? _ _   
_ _ We made a start, now we’re apart _ _   
_ _ There’s nothing left of me _ _   
_   
Richie’s Danny Zuko Voice is nasally and whiny and almost spot-on and everyone is in stitches as he lightly thrusts his hips on the table. When he replaces Sandy’s name with Eddie’s, everyone absolutely loses their cool, Kate and Beverly both falling to the ground. Mike, Bill and Stanley are leaning on each other for support and Eddie is standing in front of him, shaking with laughter. Richie sits down on the edge of the table, feigning that it’s a swing set like in the film, looking over his shoulder, forlorn.   
  
_ Eddie, my darlin' _ _   
_ _ You hurt me real bad _ _   
_ _ You know it's true _ _   
_ _ But, baby, you gotta believe me when I say _ _   
_ _ I'm helpless without you _ _   
_   
He speaks those lines instead of sings them as if he’s some sort of glorified poet and Eddie barks out a laugh. Ben as Doody lets out a “sing it, brother!” and Beverly laughs even louder from where she’s tangled up with Kate on the floor, having too much fun to stop and think about how it might possibly look to Nick who’s only a few feet away. She isn’t as worried as she would be if Kate were a boy - she knows that there’s an insane double standard where females are concerned - but she uses this to her advantage and leans closer into Kate’s space, knowing that Nick probably won’t see it as anything but friendly. As the song comes to an end, Kate claws her way up the desk and hits pause on the boombox. The whole room is in stitches and Richie looks so damn pleased with himself that Eddie has to mess with him somehow.    
  
He walks up to Richie where he’s standing and slides his hands up under Richie’s jacket, touching his shoulders, the first contact they’ve made since they’ve gotten to the party, and the jacket falls off of him and onto the table. Richie gives him a dark, confused look and Eddie reaches behind Richie and takes the jacket, putting it on himself. It smells spicy, like the cinnamon of Richie’s body wash, and something else, something innately Richie, and it almost makes him smile. Almost. Eddie looks up at him through his eyelashes.   
  
“Eat your heart out,  _ stud.” _   
  


 

Everyone hollers and cheers as Richie falls off the table and into a heap onto the ground. “You killed the Trashmouth, Eds! Congrats! Now, we can finally party in peace!” Beverly cheers, laughing as she gets up from the floor herself.  
  
“Hey,” Richie protests, voice muffled by the shag carpet. “Just because I’ve been killed doesn’t mean you’re allowed to be mean in my absence.”  
  
“Actually, Rich, that’s exactly what it means,” Eddie says, crouching down and patting Richie’s head. As he does so, though, he inconspicuously runs his head through his hair and scratches at his scalp a bit. The action makes Richie smile softly up at him.  
  
“Hey, you guys wanna go back downstairs and see what’s happening with the rest of the party?” Eddie asks. Everyone looks at each other trepidatiously. “Make sure no one’s burned the place down, you know.”  
  
“Fair point, let’s go,” Nick says, hurrying out the door. Everyone follows him, all filing out of the room after him, but Mike hangs back a bit until he has fallen in step beside Beverly.  
  
“Hey, Bevs,” he whispers, bumping his shoulder against hers. “What, uh… What was that earlier? With Kate?” he wonders, and Beverly blows out a gust of a breath before shaking her head slowly.  
  
“If I knew, Mikey, I’d tell you…” she admits, a touch of sadness in her voice, and Mike tosses his arm comfortingly around her shoulder to pull her further into his side. He is not sure exactly what is plaguing his friend, and frankly, neither does Beverly, but what she does know is that Mike, along with the rest of her friends, will be there for her when she finally figures it out, and that alone makes it seem a little less scary.  
  
Richie and Eddie are the last ones in the room once everyone has gone downstairs.  
  
“Hey,” Eddie says to Richie who’s still on the ground. “I like you a lot.”  
  
Richie opens his eyes and peers up at Eddie, giving him a sunny smile. “I like you, too, darling.”  
  
Eddie stands up and offers his hand to Richie. “Let’s go.” Richie ambles up with the help of Eddie and they stand there for a moment, hands intertwined. Richie smiles down at him. Eddie leans up on his toes and rocks up to kiss him softly, just once, chastely. Richie uses his other hand to cup Eddie’s cheek before they part. It’s not much of a kiss, both of them smiling a bit too much for it to be spectacular, but they both come away from it with butterflies anyway. Richie strokes Eddie’s cheekbone with his thumb.  
  
“Hey,” Richie starts, “how was your conversation with Nick’s papa?”  
  
Eddie smiles slowly. “Good. It was really good. I’ll tell you about it later.” Eddie uses the hand still clasped in Richie’s to pull them both out of the room and, before descending the stairs, they lose physical contact. Even though it was a mutually decided decision, it’s a bit of a blow to both of their hearts. Richie goes down the stairs first and sees that everyone is in the living room, far more drunk than any of the people upstairs or in the kitchen were. _They must’ve brought their own drinks,_ Richie thinks sourly. _How disrespectful to Nick’s dad._ Nick had used three bottles of beer in total in their games of beer pong while Eddie was gone and none of them had gotten more than tipsy, but most of these jocks were already absolutely wasted. They are thrashing to music that makes Richie want to get very far away from this house: Paula Abdul. But he sees Beverly, Stan, Mike and Kate dancing in the corner.  
  
“Richie?” He looks back up the stairs to see Eddie sitting down on the top step. “I’m gonna sit up here for a second. Catch my breath. You go on ahead, I’ll be down in a sec.”  
  
“You sure?” Richie asks, a bit concerned. It isn’t like Eddie to isolate, but he wants to think about the conversation he and Cal had before in the kitchen.   
  
“Yeah, I’m positive.” He gives Richie an encouraging smile. “I’ll meet you by those idiots dancing in the corner?”  
  
“Okay, Sandy,” Richie says, smiling broadly and sending him a wink before weaving through the crowd to join his friends.  
  
Eddie sighs and remembers bits of the conversation he had with Cal. _It all worked out. I came out for myself, not for a potential partner._ He wants to believe he would only ever come out for himself and not for Richie, but he knows any time he has thought about coming out, it’s to make Richie’s life easier and not his own. He never even considered coming out before he and Richie had the potential to become an item. He knows if he’s ever going to come out to anyone but the group he’s already out to, it’s going to have to be because he’s certain he’s prepared to face the consequences alone. Richie is his best friend, his confidant, his anchor and saving grace, but he’s not his everything - he’s got five more people to fill those roles he needs for ‘everything’ and he knows, if it came down to it, he could live without Richie. He would hate life without Richie’s technicolor and vibrancy and he’d be utterly miserable, but that’s the thing he’s realizing: nothing is permanent.  
  
Richie is his one of his oldest friends; he met Stanley, him and Bill on the first day of kindergarten and it’s been nothing but yucks ever since. But he knew something was missing. He knew it wasn’t supposed to just be the four of them. Even when they met Beverly and then Mike, they knew they needed something more, something to complete them. And then Ben saved his life last year, and they knew their group was whole. It was like the missing piece in their puzzle was completed; a masterpiece, brought to life.  
  
Eddie has known he was gay since he was 12 years old, but was only ever able to admit it to anyone out loud at age 15. He’s so scared of being honest with that part of himself, even with the people that complete him, that he feels like maybe they don’t really complete him at all. That maybe he’s not going to be complete until every person on earth knows every secret of his. He feels like he’s trapped in a world he can’t live in, is not allowed to live in.  
  
But as he looks onto his friends in the living room through the slats in the staircase and sees Beverly dominating an arm wrestling contest with Stanley, Mike, Nick and Bill cheering them both on and Richie attempting to do a handstand against the wall with Kate and Ben holding his legs to make sure he doesn’t fall, he realizes that maybe he doesn’t need his friends to complete him for him to be complete. He doesn’t need to be out to be complete. He doesn’t need anything to change to feel whole. He remembers Cal saying _I was right_ about feeling freer once he was out, and Eddie feels that way every time he’s with the Losers. Maybe being out to the right people is enough.  
  
He smiles, stands up, straightens out the wrinkles on his dress, and heads down the stairs. He tries to make his way over to where a bit of a crowd has amassed around Beverly and Stanley’s arm wrestling contest, making himself small as he goes, but he supposes he didn’t make himself small enough as he rams directly into Henry Bowers who spills a beer all over the front of his football jersey.  
  
“Fuck! My mom just washed this!” Eddie makes a face. _Shouldn’t she wash it every time you play?_ Eddie thinks, and then: _Oh, no._ Henry Bowers lets out a cruel laugh as he takes in Eddie’s appearance. “Fuck, Hockstetter! You gotta see this!”  
  
Eddie tries to escape through the crowd, but Henry grabs his arm roughly and tightly, the one he broke only a few months prior, and he cries out in pain. It’s still tender, only having gotten the cast off around his birthday at the beginning of September, and Richie manages to hear Eddie cry out through the din of the party.  
  
“Eddie?” he calls out. “Eds! Where are you? Are you hurt?” Henry laughs.  
  
“Your queerboy boyfriend coming to your rescue? That’s cute. Ah! Hockstetter, look at this fag’s dress! He’s dressed as the chick from _Grease_ or something, what a -- ”  
  
Henry doesn’t get to finish his sentence as Richie steps up to the scene. “Get your hands off him.” His voice is steely, rougher than Eddie’s ever heard it, but Henry doesn’t seem to take note of this.  
  
“Oh, so I take orders from you now, Tozier? That’s rich,” Henry laughs, and Patrick Hockstetter joins in.  
  
“Yeah, you do if you don’t want this to turn ugly.”  
  
“What, you’re protecting your _girlfriend_ now?” Henry laughs.   
  
“Get off him, you fucking dipshit, you’re hurting him,” Richie says, voice edging on desperation at the look of contorted pain on Eddie’s face.   
  
“Or what?” Henry dares, stepping closer. His grip tightens on Eddie’s arm, who lets out a short scream when white-hot pain shoots through his arm, and Richie snaps. He throws a punch at Henry, catching him across the jaw, and he stumbles backwards, letting go of Eddie. Eddie skitters backwards into Kate and Beverly’s waiting arms, but Henry had been expecting the punch and he does not go down like he had back in the spring. Instead, he rears back on his legs and propels forwards into Richie who falls onto his back and lets out a noise of distress as his head hits the coffee table as the crowd parts. Henry is on him instantly, throwing punch after punch at Richie. His nose, his cheekbones, his eye sockets. Richie, for his benefit, is still putting up a fight, attempting to brawl with Henry from his position on the floor and despite the dizziness starting to make its way into his vision, but it’s not working out, and eventually, he goes limp.  
  
Everyone in the room is screaming; some are cheering for Henry, some are horrified at the fact that Henry is still going at Richie, some terrified that it’s happening at all. Eddie keeps trying to find a way to get in and kick Henry in the face, but Beverly and Kate hold fast to his upper arms. Eddie looks at them desperately, and Beverly tells him it isn’t worth getting hurt as well. Jess Tozier is the only quiet one, watching silently from the middle of the crowd, arms crossed, a frown on her pursed lips. One person, however, is missing, and that’s Nick Englehart, who had gone to retrieve his father as soon as the first punch was thrown. His father comes down the stairs with Nick hot on his heels and assesses the situation quickly before deciding that stepping into the room alone will do the trick.  
  
And it does. He descends the last step and calmly walks into the room, striding towards the brawling boys and people quiet as soon as they see him. By the time he walks up to Richie and Henry, the room is almost silent. Henry seems to notice this and looks up and around and then at Cal who is nearly on top of them. Cal goes to Richie first, almost ignoring Henry’s presence once he stops throwing punches. Henry scrambles off of Richie embarrassedly and stands up, and Cal sits Richie up, tipping his head back as his nose runs blood like water from a siv. He does not yell at Henry, Richie or any of the kids.  
  
He looks up at Henry from his place crouched down next to Richie and looks at Henry almost peacefully. A chill goes down Henry’s spine. “Henry, would you like me to go get you a first aid kit? I can call your father to pick you up, there’s a phone book in the foyer.”  
  
Henry is enraged. Kindness? After all that, _kindness?_ He has been furious at Richie Tozier for over a month because of how he humiliated him at that stupid dance and now, after almost killing him in public, he’s shown _kindness?_ He’s even more embarrassed than he was at the dance. He has to get out. He looks around quickly at everyone’s wide eyes on him, Patrick’s sneer of a grin, and he immediately escapes out the front door, sending a dark look to the Losers as he goes.  
  
Everyone takes a bit of a relieved breath when the door slams shut. “Well, alright,” Cal says.  
  
Eddie is in motion the moment the door clicks, like a wind-up toy being set free. “I have supplies in my backpack, Mr. Englehart, it’s in your room. I keep a first aid kit stocked with me at all times.”  
  
Cal nods. “Go get it, Eddie.” Eddie is gone and returned in under 20 seconds. None of them are surprised; Eddie was always the fastest of them when he was allowed to run at all.  
  
“Here, I -- can I see him? Please?” Eddie pleads, clutching the backpack. “I would feel better if I could look at him myself.”  
  
Cal motions for him to sit down next to him. “We’ll do it together, come on.” Richie is dazed but awake when Eddie sits down. Eddie works to keep his breathing steady and even and fights off the panic attack that’s been cresting since he first bumped into Henry at the sight of Richie, completely bloodied and black and blue.  
  
“Hey, Eds, you look good with two heads,” Richie smiles lazily.  
  
“Two heads?” Eddie demands frantically, gaze snapping between Cal and Richie.  
  
“He seems to have hit his head when falling, I think he has a mild to severe concussion. He probably should be hospitalized,” Cal explains, and tears prickle Eddie’s eyes. He shakes his head.   
  
“You gotta stop being the damn hero, Rich,” Eddie admonishes.  
  
“Oh, but coming to the rescue is so much better than standing on the sidelines,” he says, smiling crookedly up at Eddie, and Eddie, for the amount of emotions he has gone through tonight, smiles back.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Richie passes out a few times on the way to the hospital, not remembering much of the drive there, but when he comes to, he’s completely alone. “Eddie? Eddie!” he begins calling out desperately. A nurse comes in.  
  
“Oh, good, you’re awake. We’ve got to set your nose now,” she says in a voice that has no room for argument. Unfortunately, she’s never met Richie Tozier.  
  
“I need my boyfriend, Eddie. He needs to be here, I’m fucking scared as shit right now,” Richie says, eyes wide and frantically searching around the room as another man he’s never seen before in light blue scrubs comes in.  
  
“Sorry, Richard, only immediate family allowed in this unit. Your, uh, your friend isn’t allowed in this part of the hospital,” she says, suddenly making exaggerated effort with putting on her rubber gloves. “Peter, gloves on?”   
  
“Yes, Mary,” the other technician says. “This is a routine procedure, Richard. It won’t hurt for more than a couple of days.”  
  
“But -- ”  
  
“Close your eyes, Richard.”  
  
“My name’s — ”   
  
“Richard. Close your eyes.” Richie does as he’s told and suddenly there’s pressure on his face and then, snap.   
  
Richie screams.  
  
  
Eddie has been pacing for almost an hour now and Beverly is honestly at the end of her rope. She’s staring at her shoes at this point. She’s counted how many epaulets are in each of her Converse (twenty altogether), she attempted to count how many scuffs are on them (a failed attempt) and she’s cuffed and uncuffed her dungarees upwards of around 25 times already. She’s about to lose her damn mind.  
  
“Eddie,” she eventually says calmly, looking up at him. Eddie stops and looks back at her, eyes desperate and wild. Her heart breaks in her chest and all frustration seeps out of her. “Sit with me.”  
  
The only people at the hospital are Bill, Beverly, Cal and Eddie. Nick had stayed back to make sure everyone had gone home, and Mike had walked each of the members of their group home, making sure they were safe. Kate had offered to go with him to keep him company and he’d accepted, glad they’d all met his friend that night in all the chaos. So currently, the only people waiting for Richie are the four of them because Beverly and Bill had insisted on driving to the hospital with Cal. Cal had told Eddie to call Maggie Tozier at the diner and let her know what had happened and, even though Eddie had protested, he’d done so. The conversation had been short, Eddie telling her that they’re at Mercy Hospital in Portland because Derry Home Hospital was full (probably due to people needing to get their stomachs pumped. It is Halloween after all). She said she’d be there as soon as she could and hung up.  
  
Eddie had driven with Richie in the ambulance. The EMTs on the scene told Richie he could take one person with him and Eddie had immediately volunteered without thinking of the implications sitting in an ambulance for forty minutes with his half-unconscious boyfriend would do for his anxiety. He had to use his aspirator several times and the EMT in the boot of the ambulance asked him if he had any medications he needed to take (twice), but he succeeded in getting Richie there. Cal drove Beverly and Bill to the hospital after they called their respective guardians and let them know what happened. Eddie had already told his mother he’d be sleeping at Richie’s, so that excuse was thankfully taken care of. Bill’s mother and Beverly’s aunt were also two of the only members of their group’s guardians would would’ve let their charges into a car with a stranger, but after talking with Cal on the phone and they severity of the situation, they both decided their children were safe in his care for the night, especially under the circumstances.  
  
Eddie sits down next to Beverly and as soon as he sits, his knee begins bouncing rhythmically. Beverly puts her hand on his knee and leaves it there. The bouncing ceases and he looks at her sheepishly for a moment before his gaze turns to the front desk and sours.  
  
“Bev, I’m so fucking pissed. Why aren’t I allowed to see Richie? Just because I’m not immediately family doesn’t mean I’m not… family. You know? We’re all his family,” Eddie spits out angrily, knee jittering at some points during his rant.  
  
“I know, Eds. It sucks, it really sucks,” Beverly insists to Eddie’s persistent nod. “It’s such a gross and outdated rule. But it’s a rule nonetheless and we can’t change it tonight.”  
  
Eddie sighs defeatedly. “I just -- I wanna make sure he’s okay.”   
  
“How was he in the ambulance?”   
  
“Mostly unconscious with a touch of delirious. He definitely had a concussion, that’s what they said. We tried to keep him awake a lot of the time, told him funny jokes and kept him laughing so he’d stay awake. You’re not supposed to sleep if you have a concussion,” Eddie relays, shrugging. Beverly nods.  
  
“I’ve heard that.”  
  
“So mostly I just told him stories about you guys. Told him about what we’d do when we got out of here, out of Derry. Stuff like that…” Eddie trails off, blushing.  
  
“Sounds kind of nice,” Beverly says with a small smile.  
  
“Yeah, it would’ve been if he weren’t bleeding profusely the whole time,” Eddie snaps, immediately regretting it at the look on Beverly’s face. “Sorry, Bevs. I’m just… This has been really hard.”  
  
“I’m sure, pal. It was horrible, what Bowers did.” Eddie glowers at his name.  
  
“Fuck that asshole.”  
  
“Definitely,” Beverly agrees, nodding resolutely.  
  
“I just… I feel — ”   
  
“Tozier?” They all look up at the nurse’s voice. “Richard Tozier.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s us,” Bill says, standing up, brushing himself off from where he’d been attempting to nap in the corner, failing miserably.  
  
“He can see you now,” she says. “I’m gonna warn you, he’s a bit out of it. But he’s insisting on visitors and visiting hours are 24/7 at Mercy, so… come on, folks.”  
  
The three kids get up, but Cal stays seated. Eddie looks back quizzically. “I’m going to wait here for Mrs. Tozier, make sure she knows where she’s going when she gets here. You three go on ahead.”  
  
Eddie nods and they follow the nurse through the corridors. When they get to Recovery and the nurse turns into Room 329, they spot Richie sitting up in bed eating red Jello. He face is a kaleidoscope of color, he’s got dried blood underneath his nose. All three of them have never been more relieved in their lives and think he’s never looked more beautiful.  
  
Richie smiles crookedly at them and they all lose their breath collectively for a moment. “Hey, guys. Tell me Bowers didn’t mess me up too bad. I’m still pretty, right?”  
  
Eddie manages to choke out, “Sure thing, stud…” before he breaks down in tears.  
  
“Oh, no, baby, come here,” Richie laughs, putting his Jello cup down next to six empty ones on the table next to him. He puts his arm out and Eddie rushes over to him, sitting down in the chair they’ve provided and taking off the down jacket he’d forgotten he’s still wearing to reveal the baby blue sweater Kate had let him borrow and a pair of Nick’s sweatpants, rolled up several times at the hips to keep them from falling. Richie smiles at the sight, thinking he looks just as beautiful as Eddie thinks he is. “Darlin’, I’m okay. Just some bumps, bruises and breaks. I’ll be just fine.”  
  
“B-Breaks?” Bill asks.  
  
“Yeah, breaks?” Eddie asks frantically. Richie smiles and it’s a bit sideways, a bit off-center.  
  
“Yeah, my nose was broken, that’s why it’s all black ‘n’ blue with this lovely li’l splint on it. The nurses and doctors of this fine, fine establishment say it’ll heal up just fine though,” Richie insists, slurring his words slightly. Eddie stands, hovering a bit.  
  
“Does that mean I can… Can I sit with you?”  
  
Richie pushes the table out of the way and then ushers Eddie to the other side of the bed. “Please do. Come, little lover, let’s lay.” Eddie smiles at him, crossing to the other side of the bed while Richie adjusts himself to the side of the small hospital bed. Bill takes the seat Eddie was just in and Beverly sits on his lap, making herself comfortable. “Good thing you’re so small.”  
  
“Hey! I am not small! I won’t lay with you if you keep up this abuse,” Eddie complains. Richie puts his hands up in surrender, pouting, but the pout is turned up in the corners, threatening to break into a grin.   
  
“I take it back,” Richie says, shifting so his arms are out in the air. Eddie tilts his chin up defiantly, playfully high, and crosses his arms. “C’mon, sunshine, the earth wants to say hello.”  
  
Eddie breaks out into a laugh, as do Bill and Beverly. “That was utterly awful, babe.”  
  
Richie shrugs. “Got you laughin’, though.”   
  
Eddie beams at him, fond and gentle. “Yeah. It did.”  
  
He crawls onto the bed and makes himself as small as he can, curling into Richie’s space and resting his head on the pillow next to Richie’s head. They’re not looking at each other, but they’re sharing the same air, and suddenly, it’s quiet. Richie’s arm is around Eddie’s waist and his hand is playing with the hem of the large shirt Nick let him borrow, knuckles grazing the skin of his hip. His other hand is tossed haphazardly across the bed towards Bill and Beverly where Beverly is picking at the bandages they wrapped the hand he’d used to punch Henry with and Bill is tracing patterns up and down Richie’s forearm, careful of where the IV is resting. One of Eddie’s hands is in Richie’s hair, pulling and prodding, lightly scratching at his scalp, and the other is laying lightly across Richie’s warm stomach over his hospital gown. It’s quiet. All is calm in the stale hospital air and the beeping of the IV machine isn’t upsetting Eddie as much as he thought it would. Maybe because he isn’t thinking about his mother, because his mother isn’t anywhere near here to keep him under trauma’s thumb.   
  
“Hey,” Eddie says quietly. Richie turns to make eye contact with Eddie, their faces only inches apart. They inhale and exhale together, and it’s the most intimate moment they’ve shared as a couple thus far, Eddie thinks, even including their kissing or Richie getting sick. Eddie thinks about leaning over to press their mouths together, but then he tracks Richie’s face and sees the black and blue marks, the spots of Eddie’s guilt, and he stops himself. “I’m sorry, baby.”  
  
Richie pulls back an inch in confusion, eyebrows quirking. “You’re sorry?”  
  
“Yeah. You wouldn’t… be here… if it weren’t for -- ”  
  
“Okay, I’m going to stop you there, my love. I would’ve stepped in that fight for anyone in our little band of weirdos. Maybe anyone at all.” Eddie smiles at that, and he falls a bit further in love with Richie than he was before at that admission. “It wasn’t just because you are my boyfriend, though maybe that fueled my anger at the situation a bit… And his, now that I think about it.” Eddie winces, terrified of Henry Bowers knowing he’s gay, but Richie presses on, not even realizing he’s said something vaguely upsetting due to the drugs in his system. “But I want to drill into your head that it wasn’t your fault.” He pokes Eddie’s temple with his index finger and twists it like a drill. He pauses, ducking his head and smiling a bit at Eddie. “Okay?”  
  
Eddie smiles back wanly, nodding. “Okay.” He doesn’t quite fully believe him yet, too high on adrenaline for Richie’s words to completely sink in, but he knows they will eventually.   
  
There’s a knock at the door and Eddie reluctantly shifts off the bed and onto the chair that’s placed on that side of the bed. Bill and Beverly remove their hands from Richie’s skin as well. Eddie resorts to holding Richie’s hand, refusing to lose contact completely. “You may enter,” Richie says in his King Charles Voice, and Beverly, Bill and Eddie laugh at his antics. The nurse that brought them to Richie’s room appears at the doorway, looking harried.  
  
“Richard, you’ve got a visitor.” Richie smiles, expecting to see more of his friends. Eddie suddenly feels his blood go cold. He forgot to warn Richie that he had to call his mother.  
  
Maggie Tozier rushes into the room and Richie face falls and then twists in confusion. “Mags. Hi.”  
  
Maggie huffs, not even registering Richie’s greeting. “Jesus, Richie - you know Halloween is a busy night and I need those hours. I get a call from your friend here, your… whatever… and he’s all freaked out, thinking you’ve died when it’s just a stupid fight that you’ve undoubtedly caused, and…”  
  
Eddie looks back and forth between Richie and Maggie, listening to Maggie ramble on, and Eddie can see Richie’s eyes start to glaze over the way they always do when he’s being yelled at by Maggie. He’s retreating in on himself, going into hiding, and, fuck, Richie definitely does not need this right now. Eddie’s sitting opposite of Maggie on the other side of Richie’s hospital bed, slowly growing more and more angry, but he stays stock-still. He has all of these thoughts rushing through his head, all of these things he’s longed to say to Maggie Tozier but has never had the opportunity. It’s when Richie’s hand goes slack in his though, that he explodes. He’s so out of it, his poor, poor boy has been through so much tonight, and Eddie breaks.  
  
“Do you see Jess here, Mrs. Tozier?” Eddie interrupts viciously, and Maggie startles, looking over at the mild-mannered boy who she’d never heard an angry word out of in her life until now. “Your exalted daughter? Richie’s sister who was at that party? No? That’s because she isn’t here. All of our friends, Richie’s friends, waited with him while he was bleeding profusely, broken and bruised. And Jess? She got in her precious Thunderbird that you bought her and left. And if you want to blame someone, Mrs. Tozier, blame me, because Richie was only defending me from a fight that Henry Bowers was starting,” he storms. He doesn’t spare a glance at Richie, Bill or Beverly, but he knows if he did, he’d find his friends’ proud smiles on him, loving and satisfied to see Richie’s mother being put in her place. “So blame me for your docked pay; I’m the one who called you. Blame me for all of it. But do not, under any circumstances, put any of this on him.”  
  
Maggie stares at him, fishmouthing. “I-I don’t blame anyone here. I blame Wentworth. I blame his father.”  
  
“Maybe, Mrs. Tozier,” Eddie tries, tired and at the end of his rope, “you should stop placing blame and start taking responsibility.”  
  
And then, with tears in her eyes, she looks to Richie. He simply smiles calmly. “Sign the papers the nurse left at the desk and leave, Mom. You don’t belong here.”  
  
She looks between them all, horrified. “And they do? These…” She can’t find the words to finish her sentence.  
  
“My friends? Yes, Mom, they do. Because they didn’t blame me for being here in the first place.” And with a silent tear that rolls down her cheek, Maggie spins on her heel and slams the door shut on her way out. Richie winces, the loud noise echoing in his head, but fully relaxes the moment it passes, glad to be rid of his mother while he’s dealing with this.  
  
They all let out a collective breath. Eddie is back on the bed in an instant. Richie throws his arm back out where it was before and both Beverly and Bill are back drawing patterns, writing secret messages into his skin. I love you. I’m here. Strong. Brave.  
  
Eddie drags his nose along the column of Richie’s neck and Richie hums, clinging to him tightly.  
  
“Baby, are you okay?” Eddie asks quietly, rubbing his hand over Richie’s chest, thumbing at his collarbones lightly. Richie nods gently, but his grip on Eddie’s shoulders tightens.  
  
Eddie is being so fucking careful with him is a way that he never is that it’s making Richie a bit teary-eyed. It’s as if he’s afraid Richie will snap, will break into pieces if he isn’t methodical with his actions and his touch. Eddie’s afraid to close his eyes, afraid to even blink, because he’s scared he’s going to see Henry on top of Richie, his blood on Henry’s knuckles, a manic, pleased smile smeared across Henry’s face and Richie’s eyes losing their life one blow at a time. Richie didn’t deserve that and he didn’t deserve his mother’s cruel words just now. Eddie feels useless, so small in this moment, like all his efforts will never shield them from the harsh, unforgiving world.  
  
“Hey, Eds.” Eddie props his chin on Richie’s shoulder, looking up at him. “I guess you’re going to have to divorce me and find someone prettier now that my nose is gonna be all crooked.”  
  
Eddie glares at him from mere inches away. It’s somehow less intimidating from up close and Richie grins. “No. I’m never divorcing you,” he deadpans.   
  
“Oh, well, I can live with that,” Richie relents happily. They hear a knock on the door and Eddie scrambles to get out of the bed again but they hear Cal’s voice through the door.   
  
“It’s just me, guys.” Eddie looks at Bill and then to Richie.  
  
“I told him. About me,” Eddie explains quickly. “At the party.”  
  
Richie nods. “I’m okay with it if you are, sweetheart.”  
  
Eddie takes a deep breath and settles back into Richie’s embrace. “Come on in, Cal,” he calls out. Cal comes in and smiles at the sight briefly before the smile drops into an expression more serious, shutting the door quickly behind him so no one sees inside the room.  
  
“Hi, Richie. It’s good to see you up and at ‘em,” he says, walking over to them and putting a hand on Richie’s blanketed knee. Richie smiles at him.  
  
“Howdy, Cal. Fancy seeing you ‘round these parts,” Richie says in his cowboy Voice.  
  
“I just spoke to your mother after hearing what she said. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I brought her to the room and… my, my, Richie, she really is a piece of work.” Richie barks out a laugh that jostles Eddie.  
  
“Yeah, that’s a way of putting it. I’d say ‘a royal fucking pain in the ass’ is more accurate, but sure, a piece of work is a decent way to describe her.” Cal chuckles.  
  
“She’s… Boy, Richie, if I had known she was going to react like that, I wouldn’t have insisted Eddie give her a call.” If Cal were any of Eddie’s friends, he’d be screaming _I told you so!_ in his face right now. But because he’s a grown adult, one that he doesn’t know deeply well yet, despite the fact that Cal knows something about him even his own mother does not, he keeps his mouth shut.  
  
“She needed to sign my release forms anyway, so she had to come eventually,” Richie shrugs, and Cal nods.  
  
“Well… Richie… I know I don’t know you very well… But you seem very close with my son,” Cal says, and Eddie’s hand tightens slightly on Richie’s ribcage as a warning, hoping that the drugs in Richie’s system don’t cause him to say something he’ll regret. But Richie just smiles and nods. Eddie breathes out gently in relief. “And any friend of my son’s is always welcome in my home. I just wanted you to know that.”  
  
“Mmm, better think about that rule carefully, Cal, the football team is apparently known for getting handsy,” he says, swinging his fist that’s attached to the IV. Eddie’s admonishes him quietly, bringing his arm back down and holding his hand, lacing their fingers together.  
  
  
“Yes, well… Those folks certainly won’t be welcome in my home any longer. I spoke to Nick and I know all about Henry Bowers and his crowd now. Nick was trying to be an everyman, and I get that. He’s a people-pleaser, just like I was at his age. But when you grow up a gay man in an intolerant society, you learn that you’re never going to please everybody. In fact, you’re probably not going to please almost anybody. So you’d better stick to the people you can please and ignore those who you can’t.”  
  
“Amen, Cal! I aim to please! Especially Eds, here,” Richie exclaims, patting Eddie on the back.  
  
“Richie, God,” Eddie groans, wishing he could elbow him for his comment. Beverly and Bill have begun drawing on Richie’s arm again and Richie turns to them.   
  
“Billy Boy,” he starts, turning his head, his hair getting in Eddie’s mouth. Eddie spits it out, insulted, but he doesn’t move from his spot on Richie’s shoulder. “Whatcha writin’?”  
  
“Oh, n-n-nothin’,” Bill teases, a smile on his face.  
  
“Oh, yeah? What about you, Bevs?”  
  
“Also nothin’,” Beverly smirks.  
  
“I bet I can figure it out,” he challenges, and they play that game until the nurse knocks on the door and walks in quickly without waiting.  
  
“Wow, folks, it’s like a regular party in here,” she says, avoiding eye contact with Eddie as he slips off the bed and onto the chair, not out of uncomfortability, but more privacy. “So, Mr. Tozier, your tests came back and it looks like you didn’t lose as much blood as we’d originally thought.”  
  
“How lovely!” Beverly declares.   
  
“Definitely!” she responds brightly. “Which means we’re going to keep you here for observation overnight and then release you sometime tomorrow. Now, is this your guardian?” The nurse points to Cal. Richie begins stammering.   
  
“N-No, he’s, um…”  
  
“I’ll be taking care of him during his stay here, yes, miss,” Cal responds instead, smiling kindly from his place next to her. Everyone in the room smiles for entirely different reasons.  
  
“Good!” she answers. “Well, this hospital is unlike most, and we’re very proud of our policy that visiting hours are 24/7, so those approved by nurses and staff can stay for the night. Usually, we only allow two at a time, but since you don’t have a roommate as of right now, and I’m the head nurse on until 8:00 A.M., I say y’all are approved ‘til morning comes.” They all grin at her.  
  
“Wow, that’s lovely, miss, thank you so much,” Eddie responds.   
  
“Call me Angie, hon, and it’s no problem. I’ll be back to check on you every two hours or so, and that remote there is for your convenience if you need anything before then. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Uncomfortable?”  
  
“Well, my friends could use some pillows and chairs...” Richie answers. Bill begins stammering.  
  
“Oh, no, ma’am, we’re f-f-fine,” he tries, but she’s already halfway out the door.   
  
“I’ll be right back with four fresh pillows. And there’s a note here in your chart that you insisted on red Jello the moment you arrived here, do you want some of that, Richard?”  
  
“Oh, that’d be stellar, thank you! And, Angie?” She turns back to him. “Call me Richie?” She flashes him a thumbs up and is out the door.   
  
“Well, that’s good, babe, you have a cool nurse!” Eddie offers excitedly.  
  
“Yeah! I like her a lot!” Richie nods before looking away insecurely. “I just wish you guys didn’t think you have to stay with me all night. You can go home if you want.”  
  
“Oh, no. We’re staying right here,” Beverly insists, spreading herself out where she’s sitting on Bill, who laughs loudly.  
  
“Beverly! You’re making yourself heavy!”  
  
“Oh please, Denbrough, you’ve said yourself I weigh the amount of a hedgehog,” she scoffs, and Bill shrugs.  
  
“I d-did say that…”  
  
Richie looks around at his friends as Eddie climbs back up on the bed, uncaring that Angie will find them. Eddie motions for Cal to take his seat and he does, smiling, and Richie is just so damn glad to have made a family he can be proud of. It’s misshapen and grows and changes with each passing year, but it’s still so beautiful. Richie’s never been prouder to be part of something.   
  
When Angie returns not more than fifteen minutes later with a tray of jello propped on one hip and a bundle of pillows below her other arm, it's to find all four teenagers sound asleep. Eddie and Richie are tangled around one another on the hospital bed, the latter snoring loudly as his head rests on the smaller boy’s chest. Bill and Beverly are squashed on one chair in positions that look like they will definitely be experiencing some back pain in the morning, both of them still holding onto Richie’s bandaged hand loosely, and Angie makes a mental note to bring a third chair after she makes another round.   
  
Cal looks up at her from his place beside the bed when she steps further into the room and he takes the tray from her with a grateful smile.  
  
“I’m sure Richie will be very happy to wake up to this,” he chuckles, setting it on the bedside table.  
  
“I hope so,” Angie nods, and she looks once more towards her patient. “They seem like sweet kids,” she adds after a moment, smiling at the sight of Richie and his friends. “Can't imagine who’d wanna hurt any of ‘em…”  
  
“No, I couldn't either.” Cal says, and he smiles at them, too. “Thank you for your kindness - it shouldn't be, but it's a rarity…”   
  
“Oh, please - after watching that woman fill out those papers with that puss on her face? I figured the least this boy deserved was for somebody to give half a care about him. But he doesn't seem to be hurtin’ too much for affection now I’m thinkin’ about it…” Angie nods towards Eddie, whose hand is still knotted in Richie’s hair.  
  
Cal chuckles softly. “I’d have to agree…”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Richie’s biggest concern following his leave from the hospital the following morning is, naturally, how quickly his nose will heal up.   
  
“I have a big performance coming up, Angie!” he chimes proudly to the young nurse as she escorts him and his friends to the hospital exit. They can already see Cal waiting outside for them, leaning against the hood of his car and tossing his keys into the air to catch them over and over. “My debut! I have to look my best…”   
  
“Have you ever looked your best, Tozier?” Beverly teases, poking at his side. Bill and Eddie laugh loudly when Richie’s jaw drops, and they can practically see the Trashmouth comeback brewing in his head when Angie chimes in.  
  
“I’m sure you always do, Richie,” she chuckles, patting his shoulder.  
  
“I sure do!” Richie insists with a huff, throwing his arm around his boyfriend so that he can pull Eddie to his side. “Gotta look sharp for my boy, always,” he swears, and Eddie flushes a vibrant red, still unused to being able to be open with Richie in an adult’s presence, but Angie smiles at the pair of them kindly, and Eddie feels at ease. He supposes that’s the mark of a good caretaker. “How soon will I be all fixed up?”   
  
“Well, it’s gonna take about six weeks for your nose to heal -- ”  
  
“Six weeks?!” Richie whines, stopping dead in his tracks. “I’m going to kill Henry Bowers,” he growls, voice pitching low, but when he sees Eddie flinch at the sound of the boy’s name, his eyes soften, and he braids their fingers together. “Will the swelling and bruising at least go down a bit?” he asks hopefully as he rubs his thumb along the back of Eddie’s hand in slow circles.  
  
“Yes, Richie, it will,” Angie promises with a nod, and both Richie and Eddie’s faces brighten.  
  
“You’ve got yourself a real challenge here, Bev,” Eddie jokes, nudging her with his elbow. “Think there’s enough makeup in the world to conceal this?” He pinches Richie’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and Richie sticks his tongue out at both of them when Beverly starts to giggle.  
  
“Eh, that’s nothing some greasepaint can’t fix…” Beverly assures as they finally reach the exit. Angie opens the door for them, propping it open with her foot as she waves them all past her. Each of the teenagers thank her for her care and kindness (“And jello!” Richie adds as an afterthought), and she smiles as she waves goodbye to them just before they hop into Cal’s car and drive off.  
  
Cal drops Richie and Eddie off at the latter’s house after making stops at Beverly’s apartment and Bill’s house. He beeps the horn twice as the pair waves to him from the front porch, and once Nick’s father drives away, heading back to his own home, Eddie unlocks the front door and pushes inside. His mother is nowhere to be found, her car missing from the driveway leading Eddie to think she’s probably gone out for some groceries. Richie follows his boyfriend up the stairs, realizing only now that Eddie had spent the entire night in the hospital and that his mother will probably be furious with him when she gets home.  
  
“You don’t have to worry about my mom, baby,” Eddie insists once they’re inside his bedroom, and Richie looks up sharply, wondering as always how Eddie is so good at reading him. “I called her last night and told her I was sleeping at Bill’s. She doesn’t know anything about what happened…”  
  
“Oh,” Richie breathes. “Oh, that’s--... good. I would feel awful if you were gonna get in trouble for staying with me all night,” he admits sheepishly, scratching at the back of his neck nervously, but he relaxes when Eddie wraps his arms around his waist and draws him into his space.   
  
“No feeling awful,” Eddie says, and Richie rests his forehead against his. “There was no way I was going to leave you in the hospital by yourself - not after you jumped to my rescue…” Richie’s smile consumes his entire face as he plays with the collar of Eddie’s shirt.  
  
“I would do it again in a heartbeat, lover,” Richie promises sweetly, and Eddie stretches a bit on his toes to kiss his lips, accidentally bumping his nose against Richie’s a bit. Richie leaps backwards with a whining hiss. “Ow,” he frowns as he raises a tender hand to his own nose.  
  
“I’m sorry, angel,” Eddie says, concern in his voice despite needing to desperately stifle the laugh he can feel bubbling in his chest.  
  
“You don’t have to be sorry for anything - it’s my stupid nose,” he pouts, and Eddie coos.   
  
“Oh, my poor baby,” he chuckles, hugging Richie close to his chest and rubbing his back soothingly, casting away any tension in his body that might be present as Richie melts into his boyfriend’s arms, resting his head on Eddie’s shoulder. “Am I gonna have to kiss it and make it all better?” Eddie teases, and Richie’s head snaps up as he nods hurriedly.  
  
“Yes, absolutely positively yes,” Richie says. Eddie shakes his head with a laugh as he leans forward to just brush his lips over Richie’s nose, the kiss feather-light and sweet, and Richie sighs contently. “You’re the best, Dr. K,” he insists, eyes closing, and Eddie snorts at one of his boyfriend’s oldest nicknames for him.   
  
“Only the best for you, baby,” Eddie responds as he toys with the tighter curls at the base of Richie’s neck. “You wanna lay down? There’s no way you got any rest in that hospital…” he comments, watching as Richie falls victim to a yawn and stretches his arms high over his head.  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Richie mumbles sleepily as he rubs carefully at his eyes behind his glasses, hyper-aware of his injuries. “Resting sounds nice...” Eddie smiles and guides them to his bed, lying down first himself and then holding his arms out to Richie so that he can climb into them. Richie fits his head in the space between Eddie’s shoulder and jaw as his long arms wrap around him. Eddie trails his hand slowly through his boyfriend’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, and Richie hums happily, pressing his cheek to Eddie’s collarbone. He tilts his head just slightly upward, his eyes remaining shut, and whispers, “Eds, I don’t think my nose is all better yet…”  
  
Eddie’s brow furrows playfully. “You need another kiss?”  
  
“Well,” Richie scoffs, “I mean - if you insist…” Eddie rolls his eyes but kisses Richie’s nose again, smiling too when he sees the way Richie’s face lights up. “Almost,” Richie sighs, and Eddie kisses him again, this time ghosting his lips up along the bridge of his nose, trying not to wince at how purple it looks, how it still looks a little crooked despite it having been reset the night before. “You know,” Richie breathes when Eddie turns instead to kiss his jaw, “I still don’t think it’s better yet.” Eddie laughs, the sound muffled against Richie’s throat, and when he looks up at him, hair askew and eyes shining, all the air in Richie’s lungs disappears.   
  
“Are you really going to make me kiss your nose better for six weeks?” Eddie asks.  
  
“It’s not all better yet, Eds!” Richie insists childishly. “Plus, my eye got pretty banged up, too… It’s still sallow, can’t you see it?” He points to his eye and Eddie’s smile falters when he sees how angry the bruising really looks, but he pushes his guilt down into the pit of his belly, remembering what he’d told Richie before - no feeling awful - and remembering how Richie had insisted that the fight was not Eddie’s fault.   
  
“You learned that word just for this request, didn’t you?” Eddie accuses, poking Richie’s side and making him giggle.  
  
“Dead men tell no tales!” Richie cries in his pirate Voice and Eddie rolls his eyes.  
  
“You’re not dead. I can’t believe I’m dating an idiot… Close your eyes,” Eddie instructs, and Richie follows the order dutifully, letting his boyfriend kiss his eyelids, his eyebrows, the dark, dark circles underneath them, softly, sweetly, and Richie sighs. “Better?”   
  
“Much… But my lips hurt, too -- ”  
  
“Oh, my God,” Eddie moans, half-laughing. “Baby, I don’t wanna hurt you by accident...”  
  
Richie shrugs. “I’ve always been a bit of a masochist,” he says mischievously, and Eddie immediately roars with laughter.  
  
“No, you haven’t!” Eddie says between his spurts of laughter. “You cried when your finger got caught in between two bowling balls when we went bowling last year, screamed ‘My fingie!’ and demanded a refund…”  
  
“Bowling is rigged!” Richie shouts defensively. “That’s a bad example!”  
  
“Well, we’ll just have to go again…” Eddie challenges playfully, and Richie huffs grumpily.  
  
“Fine! I’ll make the arrangements…” he pouts, and Eddie looks at him pointedly.  
  
“Do you still want that kiss?” he wonders lightly, and Richie looks up with the ghost of a grin on his face.  
  
“Don’t I always?” Eddie tugs a little on Richie’s curls, tilting his head up a bit, and he kisses his lips. If he bumps into Richie’s nose, Richie either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care because he’s brought his own hands up to cradle Eddie’s face between them, kissing him back fiercely.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
When Eddie shows up in the threshold of Richie’s bedroom late one October night with his backpack thrown over his shoulder and a white skirt held in his hand, Richie has to fight the urge to slug himself in the face where he is lying on his bed, convinced he has to be dreaming, that he must have fallen asleep after hanging up the phone. He remembers Eddie telling him just moments ago during said phone call that he was still nervous about a few of his Rocky scenes, and Richie had offered to help his boyfriend rehearse them, but shit - not even in his wildest daydreams did Richie expect Eddie to show up not twenty minutes later. And with a skirt.   
  
“What the fuck is that?” Richie asks, completely breathless as Eddie enters the room, shutting the door, and he tosses his bag to the floor before perching himself on the corner of Richie’s bed. Richie forces himself to look only at Eddie’s face, anywhere but at that fucking skirt.  
  
“You said you’d help me rehearse, babe!” Eddie grins, shaking Richie’s leg playfully and Richie wants to kick himself when he feels goosebumps rise on his flesh at Eddie’s touch. “I’m real nervous about _Touch-A Touch-A Touch Me_ and… and I thought if I went through it with you, someone I trust, I’d… I’d feel better about the whole thing…”  
  
Richie gulps. “Is -- is the skirt really necessary, doll?” He asks with a nervous chuckle, running a hand through his curls.  
  
“Well, I thought it would help me get more comfortable. I don’t have to wear it...” Eddie’s face drops into a downright sinful pout, and he moves to put the skirt in his backpack, but Richie scrambles quickly into a sitting position, grabbing his wrist gently.  
  
“No, baby, it’s fine,” he insists with a reassuring nod. “I want you to be comfortable and if this will help, then let’s do it...” Eddie beams at him and Richie sighs, convinced he’ll never properly regain his breath if his boyfriend has anything to say about it.   
  
“Okay,” Eddie grins, getting to his feet. “I’ll be right back!” And he disappears then into the bathroom that’s next to Richie’s bedroom, winking at him before shutting the door behind him.  
  
Richie flops back onto his bed, gathering the pillow beneath his head in his hands and covering his ears with it as he lets out a whine through clamped lips. He truly has no fucking idea how he’s going to make it through this rehearsal alive, remembering in sudden, overwhelming waves the choreography of _Touch-A Touch-A Touch Me._ Just the thought alone of Eddie standing in front of him barely clothed and begging to be touched is enough to send him into cardiac arrest, and Richie spends every second he can working himself up mentally for what he is about to do, but when Eddie emerges from the bathroom clad only in his shorts with the skirt thrown over them, Richie realizes nothing could've prepared him for this.   
  
“Are you sure you’re good with this, Richie?” Eddie asks timidly as he returns to sit at the foot of Richie’s bed again, fiddling nervously with the skirt and sliding the fabric through his fingers. “I wanted to try it with and without the shirt, see which one I feel better with, but I can put it back on if that’ll make you more comfortable -- ”  
  
“N-No,” Richie says, though not convincingly at all. He clears his throat loudly and then looks at Eddie fiercely, eyes certain and without a single tremor in his voice. “No, Eds, I want you to feel completely comfortable when we do the show next weekend. I’ll do whatever you need me to do, baby.”  
  
Eddie smiles softly and leans forward to kiss his boyfriend’s cheek. “Thank you.”  
  
  
  
Doing whatever Eddie needs him to do proves to be way more of a challenge than Richie had expected it to be. The moment the opening chords of the song flood the room, before Eddie even begins to sing, Richie knows that he’s completely and royally fucked. They’re still sitting on his bed, Eddie batting his eyes up at Richie and crooning along with Janet as he slides his arms coyly around Richie’s shoulders so he can press their bodies together. Eddie drops his hands quickly to where the skirt is gathered by his knees and he splits it right down the middle, tearing it almost completely in half exactly like how Janet does in the movie. Richie stifles a groan, biting the inside of his cheek as Eddie takes hold of his hands and presses them flush to his chest without any reservation, singing about how desperately he wants to be touched while Richie’s head spins.  
  
It is only when the song comes to an abrupt end that Richie lets out the breath he has been holding the entire time. His hands are still on Eddie’s chest, and Eddie is peering up at him through his lashes, a blush coloring his cheeks. Eddie tucks a stray lock of his hair behind his ear and looks down at his lap, thumbing at the tear in his skirt and feeling his cheeks burning up as he asks, “Was that -- I mean, was that any good?”  
  
Richie groans long and loud and Eddie’s head snaps up to find his gaze fixed on him. “I am going to be fucking murdered by my own boyfriend,” he says, voice thick in his throat, and Eddie's blush darkens, spreading all the way to the tips of his ears. “I almost wanna trade roles with Mikey…”  
  
“Oh, please,” Eddie giggles when Richie leans forward to kiss his jaw, his hands sliding down from his chest to curl around his hips. “Like you’d ever allow Mike to be Frank-N-Furter…”  
  
Richie kisses his way down Eddie’s entire throat and back up his jaw until his lips end up at the smaller boy’s ear. “You’re right… But that doesn't mean it’s not gonna kill me watching somebody else touch you.” Eddie gasps, his grip on Richie’s shoulders tightening when Richie pulls him closer to kiss just behind his ear. “I know I don't have to worry about Mikey, but the new kid better mind his manners…”  
  
Eddie rolls his eyes lovingly. “Baby, I know you don't like Nick, but that’s no reason to hold him to a different standard than the rest of our friends…”  
  
“It's not that I don't like him, Eds - I don’t trust him. Not yet. Not with -- not with you,” Richie whispers quietly.  
  
“What, do you think I’m going to leave you for Nick?” Eddie chuckles, and Richie is grateful when he turns to kiss his cheek because he can’t see the fear in his eyes.  
  
Richie isn’t stupid; he knows that Eddie Kaspbrak is entirely too good for him, and he doesn't waste any time thanking every deity he can come up with for allowing him even one second by his side. But Richie isn't clueless enough to not feel like he’s operating on borrowed time, like Eddie will wake up one day and want someone better, shinier, more handsome - someone like Nick.  
  
Eddie knows that Richie is it for him, knows that for the rest of his life, he would be hard-pressed to find somebody more spectacular than Richie Tozier, and because he knows this, he laughs at the mere thought of choosing someone else over him.  
  
It is only when he feels Richie go rigid in his arms at his words that he realizes he isn't joking. He crawls further into Richie’s space, climbing into his lap, and Richie hugs him back immediately, like it's the last time he ever will, and Eddie realizes for the first time that this is always how Richie hugs him, like he’ll never get the chance to again.  
  
“I don’t want to leave you,” Eddie promises, and it’s so much more reassuring than _I’ll never leave you_ because it’s something he can promise in the immediate, something Richie can count on and anchor himself to - a truth he can rely on - and he clings to it like it’s a life-preserver, like he’s lost at sea and Eddie is the only thing keeping him afloat. Their relationship is still so new, the memories of Richie’s birthday party still threatening to cast a dull shadow over them, and Richie still cannot seem to shake the feeling of those months without Eddie back in the spring, back when he struggled to even push on from day to day. The thought of losing Eddie again, especially after Richie has gotten to see what it feels like to really be with him is too much for him; he always feels like he is losing Eddie, like he’s losing everybody he loves even when they're right beside him, and he wants to be normal for Eddie, a normal boyfriend, more like Nick or even Bill. But he can’t be - he has too much baggage and there’s nowhere to put it all down. Or, at least he’s always thought that until there was Eddie, standing before him with open palms, asking to take some of his burden, and he feels lighter just at the thought of Eddie wanting to help him, hold him, even for just a little while.  
  
Richie turns his head to nuzzle his nose into the crook of Eddie’s neck, whispering, “Eds -- Eddie darling, would you… do you think you could stay tonight?” His voice is incredibly small. “I just -- I sleep better when you're with me.”  
  
“Oh.. Yeah - yeah, baby, sure…” Eddie smiles, running his hand through Richie’s curls as he kisses his forehead. Eddie remembers holding hands with Richie all night long last Christmas, his gum wrapper ring glistening in the fairy lights, remembers Thanksgiving before that, and he gets butterflies at the thought that he gets to do that again, that he doesn’t have to steal it this time, doesn’t have to worry that it might never happen again. He gets Richie for keeps now. “Of course I can. I sleep better when you’re there, too,” he adds sweetly, and Richie thinks his heart might burst through his ribs.   
  
Eddie seals their lips together in a chaste kiss before getting to his feet and removing his tattered skirt, shoving it into his backpack after he digs his t-shirt back out and throws it over his head, laughing when Richie protests from where he is still sitting cross-legged on his bed. He watches Eddie fondly as he moves almost methodically about the room, tidying up in a way that’s so slight Richie wonders if the boy is even aware he’s doing it at all. Eddie gathers up the pile of dirty clothes sitting just beside the entirely empty hamper and throws them in with a tut, which causes Richie to erupt in laughter.   
  
“What?” Eddie asks, suddenly feeling self-conscious, but Richie pushes himself onto his knees and reaches for Eddie’s hands to pull him back into his arms.  
  
“Oh, nothing, my little vacuum,” Richie teases sweetly, kissing Eddie’s nose. Eddie pouts. “C’mon, help me look for a spare toothbrush for you before you start color-coordinating my socks.” Eddie shoves him playfully, but he lets Richie drag him into the bathroom and helps him rifle through the cabinets and various bags of toiletries until they find a new toothbrush and Eddie cannot stop smiling, even when Richie teases him for flossing twice (“It’s dentist recommended!” “Eds, if everybody actually did what dentists recommended, dentists would be out of work…”) because it’s so easy for them. He wonders if it’s this easy for everyone - he hopes it is, especially for their friends. He hopes that Bill and Stanley are as comfortable with each other as he and Richie are, and he hopes that whoever Mike and Beverly and Ben end up with feels like home to them too, that they can fall into that other person as easily as Eddie has fallen into Richie.  
  
He turns back around when Richie gives the all-clear, letting him know he’s done changing for bed, and Eddie cannot help the already present smile on his face from stretching wider as he takes in the sight of Richie already back in bed and with his glasses on his bedside table. Richie is rubbing his eyes fiercely, which tells Eddie that he is exhausted; he is wearing a far-too-big Queen concert shirt and a pair of red checkered pajama pants and looking much too adorable to be allowed.  
  
“You need an invitation, Kaspbrak?” Richie yawns, patting the empty space beside him when he catches his boyfriend gawking at him. Eddie laughs as he crawls beneath the covers and curls up against Richie’s side, braiding their legs together, and Eddie feels completely secure in Richie’s arms. “Night, Eds…” Richie whispers into his hair before kissing him softly, his lips just barely brushing his forehead.  
  
“Goodnight.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“Will you turn that garbage down?!” Jess Tozier shrieks over the music blaring from her brother’s bedroom, not even bothering to knock on the door; she simply throws it open, letting it slam against the wall, and Richie jumps about twelve feet in the air, whirling around and looking like a deer caught in headlights as his sister takes in the sight of him.  
  
“What the hell are you doing?” she scoffs around a chuckle, folding her arms over her chest as she looks Richie up and down distastefully, observing the high heels on his feet with a wrinkle of her nose. Richie swallows the bile he can feel rising in his throat and squares his shoulders, standing up a bit straighter in front of his sister, towering over her even without the heels and slapping a smug smile onto his face.  
  
“I’m rehearsing,” he answers simply. “So, no - I can’t turn the music down. Sorry,” he says in a tone that assures he is not sorry at all, and he twirls around once more, splaying his arms about in a lavish display and singing along to _I Can Make You a Man_ as if Jess isn’t even there.  
  
The tell-tale sound of a record being stopped abruptly and - Richie winces - incorrectly falls on his ears, and he whirls around, having been so preoccupied with his choreography that he had not heard Jess stomp further into his room to turn the music off herself, her perfectly manicured hand returning to her hip in an instant.  
  
“What is it with you, Toad?” Jess snaps impatiently. “Doing,” she gestures vaguely in his direction, lip curling in disgust, “shit like this. I swear, it’s like you’re asking to get your ass kicked.”    
  
“Oh, that’s sweet, Jessica,” Richie muses with a dark chuckle. “Nice to know you share a brain with the rest of this town.” His sister rolls his eyes at him.  
  
“Please, am I supposed to feel bad for you? You shove it in everyone’s faces all the goddamn time! No one wants to see that.”  
  
“See what? Me?” Richie growls hotly and Jess’s thin lips twist into an ugly smile.  
  
“Your words,” she shrugs and Richie shakes his head slowly, chuckling still as she cocks her head to one side, looking him up and down again, like she cannot fathom the sight before her. “Why should I feel bad for you when you’ve done nothing but make my life goddamn miserable ever since Homecoming with that stupid little stunt you and your friends pulled? God, Rich - I still can’t believe you - you actually said that in front of everyone,” Jess’ voice drops to a whisper, a look of repulsion on her face. Richie can only laugh at his sister, at her reluctance to even say the word gay, mostly because he knows that she couldn’t give less of a shit about his sexuality, that it was only even a problem at all because it soiled her reputation by association. “You really ought to think about other people before you open your fucking mouth like that, Rich - I have to go to the same school, too, you know,” she insists, poking him in the chest. He swats her hand away like a fly, staring directly back at her as she barrels on, not even stopping to take a breath, “And to top it all off, you think being a part of some gay show that doesn’t even make sense to have in this town in the first place --  ”  
  
“It’s the biggest theatre in the area, Jess, you know that. The Aladdin is fuckin’ huge,” Richie sighs, entirely done with her sermon already but seeing no end to it in sight.    
  
“And after you started an all out brawl with Henry at the Halloween party and left me to deal with that on top of everything else -- ?”   
  
“He was hurting Eddie!” Richie shouts and Jess rolls her eyes.   
  
“Oh, boo-hoo. I’m sure your boyfriend -- ”  
  
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Richie grits out, and he holds back a wince at the words that come out of his mouth. He knows Eddie would be glad he’s insisting they’re not dating, but God, he feels part of himself rot and die at the words, at the denial. He doesn’t know how much longer he can take the hiding of his feelings for the boy he loves. Jess just rolls her eyes and barrels on, as if she doesn’t even believe him in the first place.  
  
“ -- would’ve survived it and you jumping in just made it worse. That’s all you do, Toad - make things worse. You know it really embarrasses Mom, too, when you act out like that -- ”  
  
“Mom embarrasses herself, Jess. She doesn’t need any help from me.” Richie deadpans, and he watches his sister’s jaw drop, knowing instantly that she will run and tell Maggie Tozier the second she can. He doesn’t care. He hopes she does. After Eddie’s speech in the hospital, he hopes she tells her about Homecoming for all he cares. “I don’t need your third degree, so get the fuck out of my room. Now.” Richie growls, and for a single moment, Jess looks like she might challenge him, but then she shoots a look of pity his way and turns with a flick of her blonde hair over her shoulder, leaving him alone. He perches on the edge of his bed and kicks off the heels Paul had procured for him from the thrift shop, sending them flying into his bedside table, and he rakes both of his hands through his curls, pushing his glasses up into them before rubbing his knuckles into his burning eyes and wishing he was somewhere else, anywhere else. He snatches his Docs from where they’re lying at the foot of his bed, pulls them on without bothering to tie them, and he grabs his keys, bolting out of the house before Jess can see the tears lining his face.  
  
  
  
When Richie flops into their usual booth beside Eddie, he’s still shaking, something that does not go unnoticed by Eddie in the slightest. “Baby, what’s the matter? You look like you just saw a ghost…” Eddie whispers, concern in his voice as he quickly reaches to take Richie’s hand.  
  
Richie grabs ahold of him fiercely, needing his lifeline, and he turns into Eddie, burying his head in the crook of the other boy’s shoulder. Eddie looks worriedly towards Bill, who is up at the counter ordering their usuals, and Bill mouths, Is he okay? to which Eddie can only shrug as he trails his hand along Richie’s back, frowning when he feels him trembling still. He presses a gentle kiss to Richie’s curls and it’s almost as if that remoulds the boy in his arms, like it was always ever that simple to be put back together again. Richie lifts his head up from where it was hidden in the collar of Eddie’s jacket and offers a small but sure smile. Eddie feels the fist that had been closed around his lungs slacken as he smiles back at his boyfriend, pushing the curls that had fallen into Richie’s eyes out of his face so that he can kiss his temple.  
  
“You okay?” Eddie breathes, his lips still pressed to Richie’s forehead, and Richie nods.  
  
“Now I am,” he whispers back surely as he fiddles with Eddie’s collar, wanting desperately to kiss him but being wary of onlookers. Eddie scans the diner, eyes darting around the room, and Richie watches as his smile brightens.  
  
“It’s just the three of us in here,” Eddie says comfortingly, but Richie still whirls around to see for himself. Eddie is right - Bill is still loitering by the pick-up counter, waiting for their order to be done, and Richie can hear Sue in the kitchen, barking an order at the cook. The waitress working the lunch shift could be seen through the window at the back of the diner, leaning against the building outside and puffing away on a cigarette, taking a quick break while she can in case a sudden rush of people decides to flood the place.   
  
Richie smiles and turns back to face Eddie, who immediately takes his face in his hands to kiss him softly, and any piece that had been knocked out of place by his sister’s cruel words is instantly righted as Eddie’s arms curl around his shoulders. Eddie pulls back just a fraction, stroking Richie’s cheek with his thumb when he pouts at the separation. “What happened?” he asks, and Richie realizes he should have known better than to think Eddie wouldn’t ask him why he’d shown up looking like somebody had sucked out his soul and left him a shaking shell instead.  
  
“She’s the worst person I’ve ever met,” Richie spits irritably, and Eddie smiles weakly, knowing he must be talking about Jess and yet unsure of what to say back. He understands how it feels to not feel at ease in your own home, used to his mother’s uncanny ability to make him feel like a stranger even to his own flesh, but he could not imagine having a sibling to add to it, to twist the knife that much deeper. “I don't know why she hates me, Eds,” Richie adds pitifully as Bill returns to the table, balancing three milkshakes and a basket of cheese fries on the tray in his hands.  
  
“Rich,” Eddie coos, rubbing his back still, but Richie shakes his head and simply holds his hand out in a silent request for his milkshake. Eddie frowns, but he passes one of them to his boyfriend, who takes it gratefully. “Angel, how can I help?”  Bill shares a quiet look with Eddie while Richie is focused on his milkshake, chasing the lone cherry with his spoon around the mountain of whipped cream at the top. They all know how his sister can be, but they have never seen Richie this bent out of shape over her.  
  
“I just don’t understand why she has to be such a fucking witch about everything,” Richie grumbles, and Eddie rubs his arm gently. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“You d-d-don’t have to apologize to y-your friends when y-you’re upset, Rich,” Bill insists. “We’re h-h-here for the g-good and the bad. You kn-know that.” Richie gives his best friend a watery smile, and Eddie kisses his boyfriend’s damp cheek fondly before turning to smile at Bill, grateful for him and how deeply his friendship with Richie runs, how he always knows exactly how to get him back. “We love you, Rich,” Bill adds, and that opens the floodgates completely. Richie hiccups and turns to hide his face in Eddie’s throat. Eddie coils his arms quickly around the other boy, rocking him slowly in his arms and pressing another kiss into his hair.   
  
“I - sometimes I wonder if… if it would be better if she just left me the fuck alone,” Richie whimpers, rubbing at his eyes with a sniffle, and Bill feels his heart splinter in his chest at the sound. “If we both just acted like the other didn’t exist… It’s like she looks for chances to hurt me. I don’t know what I ever did to make her hate me so much…”  
  
“You didn’t do anything, angel,” Eddie swears. “Some people… some people are just cruel. You’ll drive yourself crazy trying to figure out why…” He kisses Richie’s forehead.  
  
“I kn-know a better way to sp-spend your time,” Bill pipes up softly, and the other two turn towards their friend to find him smiling kindly at the both of them. “Inst-stead of thinking about the p-people who are cruel… th-think about the people who aren’t…” Eddie twists his fingers around Richie’s and brings their hands to his lips so he can kiss his boyfriend’s knuckles, and Richie nods down at them.   
  
“Think you’re onto something with that one, Big Bill…”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
When Nick tosses his front door open and comes face to face with Mike Hanlon, he can’t help but look confused.  
  
“Oh -- Mike, hi!” he grins, slumping his shoulder against the threshold of the door.  
  
“You look disappointed,” Mike infers, brow furrowed, and Nick flushes scarlet.  
  
“Oh! No, I -- I’m sorry, man, I uh - I thought you were the pizza guy…” His heart thumps a little harder when Mike chuckles, liking the sound and refusing to think about why. “What’s up? C’mon in…” He moves out of Mike’s way and gestures for him to step inside. He shrugs his jacket off and Nick hangs it up for him on the coat rack settled in the corner behind the door, closing it behind Mike and bringing his hands together as he leads him into the living room. “What can I do for you?” Mike goes to open his mouth, but before he can say anything, Nick’s father rounds the corner.    
  
“Need some help carryin’ the pies in, kiddo -- oh!” Cal starts when he notices Mike standing beside his son. “It’s Michael, right?” he wonders, tossing his hand forward, and Mike shakes it with a kind smile.  
  
“Just Mike is fine, sir,” he replies. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Englehart…”    
  
“Just Cal is fine, sir,” the man jests with a wink, and Mike chuckles again, the sound incredibly warm and infectious. “You stayin’ for pizza?”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Cal,” Mike shrugs, shoving his hands bashfully into the pockets of his jeans. “My grandfather is expecting me home soon -- I just had to talk with Nick about something real quick… _Rocky_ stuff…”  
  
“Oh, well, lemme get outta your hair, then,” Cal nods, holding his hands up as he backs his way out of the room, spinning on his heel at the last moment and disappearing into the kitchen. Nick perches himself on the arm of the sofa, his legs swinging below him as he waits for Mike to take a seat as well, but the other boy cannot bring himself to sit down, worried that he’ll lose his nerve.  
  
“It must be cool having an old man who is so lax about you being in a show like this,” he says, and Nick chuckles.  
  
“Be kinda hypocritical if he wasn’t okay with it, wouldn’t it?” he reminds, and Mike nods, blushing down at the toes of his boots.  
  
“Right. Forgot. Guess I’m just used to my grandfather…” Nick frowns.    
  
“Where does he think you go to when he have rehearsal?”  
  
“Work at the pound. Or just to hang out at one of the others’ houses…” Mike shrugs. “He doesn’t really question me, I’ve never been one to lie to him before, I just know I couldn’t tell him the truth about this…” Nick hums sympathetically.  
  
“So… what did you need to talk with me about?” he prompts, but Mike holds his hand up, and Nick falls silent.  
  
“Gimme just a second, man - I’m workin’ up to it…” he pleads, eyes closed and with half of a nervous grin on his face that sends Nick’s mind reeling. Were they throwing him out of the show? Did he do something wrong? Was it because Richie had gotten hurt at his house, at his party? He stills feels an incredible amount of guilt every time he looks at Richie’s crooked nose, still a bit bruised even after weeks of healing, but he didn’t think any of them blamed him for what happened that night. Maybe he was wrong.   
  
“Look, Mike, if you guys don’t want me in _Rocky_ anymore because of what happened at Halloween -- ”   
  
“Wait, what?” Mike balks, eyes flying open. “What about Halloween?” Nick rubs at the nape of his neck nervously, avoiding the older boy’s gaze.  
  
“Tozier’s nose…” he mutters. “I don’t know… I get it if you guys blame me, I invited Henry -- ”  
  
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Mike cuts him off, putting his hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Bowers has always been a fucking asshole  - you had nothing to do with what went down between him and Richie… And we all know that, dude. None of us hold you accountable for that…”  
  
“No?” Nick whispers, looking up sheepishly, and Mike smiles at him.  
  
“No way, man...” he swears. “You’re our Brad. We’d be crazy to let you go…” Nick’s cheeks burn brilliantly at that sentiment and he scratches at the back of his head, running his hand through his curls before meeting Mike’s gaze pointedly.   
  
“Then what’s up?” he asks quietly, and he bumps his fist gently against Mike’s where the boy is still standing beside him, back rigid. He lets out a slow, calculated breath and rocks back on his heels a bit before turning to face Nick head on.  
  
“Do you know about what happened to me? To my family, I mean?” he asks bluntly, and Nick’s mouth falls open. “I mean, of course you know what happened. You’ve lived in Derry your whole life - anyone who’s lived here that long knows about the fire. I don’t know why I asked you that,” he seems to be rambling, but that’s good, because it gives Nick time to pick the lower half of his jaw up from where it had hit the carpeted floor beneath their feet. “Anyway -- you know about the fire…” he says carefully, and Nick nods, the motion a cautious one.  
  
“Yeah,” he mumbles after a bit, feeling stupid. “Yeah, I know…”  
  
“Right,” Mike nods. “Yeah. Good…” he trails off, and Nick can see that his hands are shaking. He thinks for a moment about reaching to take one of them in his own, but he stops himself. “I, um… well, my grandfather and I were the only ones who survived, which I’m sure you read about...” Nick nods again, mutely. “I didn’t come out of there unscathed though,” Mike mutters, and Nick’s heart aches.  
  
“Mike, why -- ”   
  
“Look. I got burned from the fire. Bad. And I don’t really like putting that on display, but I thought doing Rocky might help me get a little more comfortable in my skin. My friends, they’ve all seen them - the burns… Except for you. And I -- I figured I should show you because… because I didn’t want the first time that you saw them to be onstage, under a bunch of lights…”  
  
“Okay,” Nick breathes because he isn’t sure what else to say, so overcome with the knowledge that Mike has somehow grown to trust him just as much as the rest of his friends in the short time he’s known him, that he feels safe enough to quite literally bare his burns in front of him.  
  
“Okay…” Mike repeats, nodding more to himself than anything, and he feels his heart swell as he watches Nick close his eyes wordlessly, granting him privacy as he removes his sweater. He blushes a bit as he gathers up the bottom of the sweater and pushes it up over his head slowly, tugging his arms free once it’s off. He folds it up and places it carefully on the coffee table before straightening up again and sucking in a sharp breath. “Okay…” he says again, but Nick still does not open his eyes. He is waiting for Mike to tell him it’s okay, and Mike thinks again just how wrong Richie is about Nick being a pest, about not jiving with the group. Mike feels just as he felt standing in front of any of his other friends as he does now: a little nervous, sure, and incredibly exposed, but also unspeakably safe. “You can open your eyes, Nick.”  
  
“Okay…” Nick says, still with an air of caution even after being granted permission, but even once they are open, he only looks at Mike’s face. He does not allow himself to look any further down than Mike’s chin, staring purposefully into his eyes and hoping the older boy can tell all he’s trying to say with them. Thank you for trusting me. You can trust me with anything. I promise you’re safe here. Mike smiles down at him timidly and then lets his eyes drift down to his shoulders, turning slightly so that Nick has a better view of his back. Nick follows his gaze to where it rests on the discolored flesh that dots the older boy’s shoulders in clumps and trails up the nape of his neck; they seem to be confined to just that area, and Nick does not want to imagine how that could’ve happened, but he doesn’t have to because Mike is explaining why.  
  
“Tried to break the door down to get out,” Mike explains in a hushed tone. “So my back took most of the hit…”   
  
“How old were you?” Nick breathes, voice barely audible.  
  
“I had just turned 10.”  
  
“Jesus…” Nick closes his eyes and shakes his head, letting it fall before pushing his hair back and looking up again, eyes suspiciously red. “Mike, I -- I can’t even imagine…”   
  
“Most people can’t…” Mike shrugs as he picks up his sweater from the table and pulls it back over his head. It is impossible not to notice how much his whole body relaxes once it’s back on, and Nick smiles at him encouragingly. “That’s okay… I wouldn’t want you to be able to… I just… I needed to show you.” Nick opens his mouth to respond, but the doorbell rings again, and both boys jolt. “That must be your pizza…” Mike says, and Nick chuckles quietly, having completely forgot about dinner.  
  
“Sure you couldn’t stay?” he wonders as he hears his father paying the delivery guy before returning to the kitchen with two pizza boxes in tow, and Mike smiles a bit, but shakes his head.  
  
“Maybe some other time…” he suggests, and Nick nods, grinning as they head out of the living room and back towards the front door.   
  
“Yeah,” Nick nods, opening the door for the older boy after handing him his jacket. “Hey, Mike?” he calls just as Mike reaches the last porch step. He turns back to face him. “I’m glad you showed me…” _Thank you for trusting me._ _  
_  
Mike smiles. “Yeah. Me too.” _Thank you for seeing me._ _  
_  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Shirley Marsh adores her niece. She has never married, never quite saw the point, and by extension, never had any children of her own, so while it had been an unspeakably unfortunate circumstance what upended her life out in Portland and landed her in Derry, she cannot say that she isn’t grateful for the privilege of having a hand in raising such a spectacular creature as Beverly. Shirley has only been Beverly’s guardian for the past three years, but they have been the best of both of their lives; the frightened little girl who had fallen into her lap at thirteen years old was unrecognizable in her firecracker of a niece now, and it brings tears to Shirley’s eyes when she watches the 16-year-old prance about the living room of their apartment, lining her eyes haphazardly with a black pencil, making their icy blue even more striking. Beverly is already wearing her costume for her _Rocky Horror_ performance that she and her friends are putting on, and Shirley is devastated that she got called into work, having had all intentions of going out to support the kids.   
  
“It’s alright, Auntie,” Beverly says for easily the tenth time that evening as Shirley props the girl’s top hat on her head for her, patting it twice before taking hold of her niece’s face and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “We all know you’d be there if you could…”  
  
“And don’t you ever doubt that,” Shirley swears, bopping Beverly’s nose with the tip of her finger.  
  
“Oh, I don’t, but I can’t promise you that Richie won’t be a little heartbroken… He was so excited when I told him you were coming to watch him strut his stuff. I’m sure we can talk him into an encore at a later date with little to no bribing involved though…” Beverly teases, and Shirley laughs fondly.  
  
“He’s a good boy,” she says, and Beverly nods in agreement. Shirley holds her hand out to her niece. “Here, let me do that for you,” she insists, and Beverly relents with a loving grin, giving her the eyeliner. She knows her aunt feels bad about missing the show, and that she is trying to compensate by doing her makeup, and Beverly lets her - not because she is upset that she is missing the show, Beverly understands that things come up and plans don’t always work out. No, Beverly lets her aunt line her eyes for her because she knows it will ease some of the unwarranted guilt the older woman is already feeling over having to break their promise, and hopefully some of the guilt she feels constantly. Shirley was Alvin Marsh’s sister, and she’s promised Beverly over and over since his death that if she had been privy to the knowledge of how truly awful a man he really was, she would’ve taken her in much earlier. Beverly knows her father put on a good face for the public, and she’s never blamed her aunt for not being able to see through it. Shirley’s hand shakes a bit when she gets to the upper lid of Beverly’s left eye, and Beverly grasps her aunt’s hand gently, steadying her, and they share a comfortable smile just as they hear a knock at the apartment door.   
  
“That’ll be your boys,” Shirley predicts, and Beverly chuckles when she recognizes the murmurs of her friends from the other side of the door.   
  
“You’d be correct, Auntie,” she nods, leaving Shirley in the living room and darting between the sofa and the coffee table to pull the door open, finding Mike, Ben, Stanley, and Bill all waiting in the hall. Eddie is standing at the opposite end of the hall and holding the stairwell door open, and Beverly can hear Richie’s out of breath shouts from the floor below.  
  
“Are you guys seriously going to make me transport all of the costumes and props on my own?!” he cries and Beverly snorts. “The elevator’s out of service!”  
  
“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you went into a full-blown character analysis as to why Frank and Janet should’ve gotten together in the end,” Stanley responds, tone entirely indifferent as he squeezes past Beverly and into the apartment. “Hi, Auntie!” he calls when he catches sight of Shirley waiting for them in the living-room, waving to her with a bright smile, and the rest of the boys barrel into the apartment after him until they’re all in the living-room with her. She hugs each of them in turn, doting over them just as she does her niece.  
  
Beverly rolls her eyes at them but smiles all the same before turning back around to meet Eddie’s gaze while he continues to hold the door open for his boyfriend, the pair of them shaking their heads as Richie calls up to them, using what little air is left in his lungs to do what he does best - argue.   
  
“Excuse me,” Richie pants, “the writers of Rocky very clearly were on my side here. You guys are on the wrong side of history, and if you can’t see that, well, then that’s just too damn bad.”  
  
“Babe, Stan isn’t even in the hallway anymore,” Eddie informs just as Richie rounds the final bend that will bring him to Beverly’s floor, saddled with a giant cardboard box that looks like it’s filled with the contents of a party store. He drops it at the top of the flight of stairs with a thud and slumps against the railing.   
  
“Then he has forfeited! I win by default!” Richie cheers. Eddie rolls his eyes.  
  
“You are 16 goddamn years old. Aren’t we past ‘I win by default’?” Richie shakes his head with a pleased smile, arms crossed, all the props surround him. Eddie thinks he looks faintly like a child king and the props his fallen soldiers. _God,_ Eddie thinks with a smile. _He is too fucking much._ _  
_  
“Never.”  
  
“Where’s Nick?” Beverly suddenly asks, looking around for him.  
  
“Oh, he has to finish up closing his dad’s shop - says he’ll meet us at the theater. Paul, too, obviously,” Eddie explains, and Beverly nods.  
  
“What are you three still doing out here?” Shirley asks, poking her head out into the hallway, and when Richie sees her, he bolts out of the stairwell and skids to a halt beside her.  
  
“Auntie!” he yells, throwing his arms around her in a hug. “Did you see what they made me do?!” he wails, pointing wildly at his friends who are still in the living room.   
  
“Oh, what happened, Richie?” Shirley inquires with a knowing grin, hugging him back and patting his curls.  
  
“Stanley made me carry all the props up the steps like a big meanie!” Richie cries. “I’m being subjected to slave labor!”  
  
“No, you’re not, Richie!” Mike’s muffled voice calls from inside the apartment and Richie pouts.   
  
“Well, it still wasn’t nice!”  
  
“Alright, alright, settle down, you crazy boys,” Shirley insists as she ushers them all inside, pinching Eddie’s cheek when he moves past her and into the apartment after Beverly. “You shouldn’t be arguing, tonight is supposed to be fun!”   
  
“You heard Auntie, f-fellas,” Bill chimes in, “no more arguing…” And because it’s Bill who says it, the rest of them nod. “Alright, Beverly - who’s up first?”  
  
“Well, Richie’s going to take the longest,” Beverly says, “so I should probably get his makeup out of the way…” Richie claps his hands together excitedly and places himself on the loveseat directly in front of where Beverly has set out all of her makeup, most of it being new, courtesy of her aunt. Shirley is the manager at Freese’s Department Store and she gets a discount on all of her purchases, so she went out and bought her niece everything that she might need for this evening’s performance.  
  
Richie is staring at the heap of cosmetics in front of him like they’re wrought with gold. “Let’s hop to it, Bevs - make me pretty! Well, prettier…” He wiggles his eyebrows, but when a snort sounds from Stanley’s general direction, Richie whips his head around so quickly he almost cracks his neck. “Something to say, Stanley?”  
  
“No, no, nothing,” Stanley swears, shaking his head. “How’re your legs feeling, buddy?” Richie flips him off and Stanley gasps.  
  
“Auntie, did you see what Richie just did?!” Stanley cries, and Ben slaps a hand to his own forehead.  
  
“Jesus, it’s like dealing with preschoolers…” he groans, looking to Bill for some type of solace, and Bill places his hand carefully on the small of Stanley’s back, his touch instantly soothing.  
  
“No more arguing,” he reminds in a gentle but stern voice, and Stanley folds his arms across his chest and rests his head on Bill’s shoulder with a look of defeat while the rest of them watch as Beverly gets to work on Richie’s makeup.  
  
It only makes sense that Beverly would apply makeup as fluidly as she paints a canvas, the smaller, finer brushes not so unlike her paintbrushes, and she follows the natural curves and contours of Richie’s face as she replicates the ostentatious and vibrant glamour of Frank-N-Furter, her touch so feather-light Richie could fall asleep - that is until she begins dab at his still sore nose, causing his eyes to fly open in shock.  
  
“Ow, Bev! Holy shit!” he whines, flinching away from her and shielding his nose with his hand; it is still hurting from when Henry Bowers had broken it.  
  
“Oh, my God, you’re such a baby, Tozier,” she teases, hoping the slight uptick in her voice isn’t noticeable as she worries that she’s actually put him in pain. Shirley takes the rest of the boys into their dining room area for some snacks while Beverly continues to work on Richie’s makeup, and Beverly smiles at her back, alway grateful for the woman’s timing. “You’re not really hurt, are you, Rich?” she whispers.  
  
“Nah, Bee - just messin’...” Richie promises, smiling down at her and shaking his head so that his curls fall in his eyes. He suddenly looks like the ten year boy who had walked beside her the whole way home on her first day of fifth grade even though his house was in the opposite direction. Many years would pass before Beverly learned that Greta Bowie had had every intention of chasing after her on her way home that day, and that Richie had overheard her talking about it and made sure Beverly wasn’t alone for a second until she set foot inside her apartment. She looks up at that same boy now, and she loves him even more now than she did on the day she learned just how deeply Richie Tozier cares about the world, about people in general.   
  
“I hate you,” Beverly says, punching his shoulder, but she is smiling, too.  
  
“Love you,” he refutes softly, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. “Thank you for doing this.”  
  
“Anything for you, dollface,” Beverly coos, batting her eyes at him as she returns to her work, and Richie swats at her hand playfully. “Hey! Never hit my hand when I’m holding a makeup brush unless you wanna end up looking like a madman!”  
  
“As if that isn’t exactly what this role calls for,” Richie argues, but Beverly shushes him, and he closes his eyes again, letting her complete her masterpiece as she touches a tube of lipstick to Richie’s open mouth.  
  
“Done!” she cries just moments later, clapping her hands together, and when she passes Richie a hand-mirror so that he can take a look for himself, he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from tearing up. He feels… good. He feels really fucking good. Beverly has managed to recreate everything Richie loves about the character of Frank-N-Furter, from the dark grey eyeshadow climbing up to his thinly-penciled eyebrows to the high planes of his cheekbones and his ruby red lips, but all the while keeping Richie Tozier visible beneath the makeup. “What do you think, hon?”   
  
Richie looks up from the mirror at her with a thousand-watt smile. “I love it, Bee. Thank you.”  
  
Because Richie and Beverly really are the only members who needed the works, the rest of the crew’s makeup takes little to no time at all. Bill doesn’t need any and really only needed Beverly to make sure that his blonde wig for his Riff-Raff costume is securely pinned to his head. Ben just needed his own hair to look like he’d driven through a wind-tunnel, so all that he’d needed was Aunt Shirley’s teasing comb and some hairspray, and then for Beverly to put a fake gash on his forehead that she did pretty quickly and only with some tissues, glue, and fake blood. Stanley’s makeup is very similar to Beverly’s in that it is just a layer of white greasepaint, some heavy eyeliner (applied by Aunt Shirley, who insisted yet again), and red lipstick. Mike, like Bill, does not need to wear any makeup - that is, on his face.  
  
“Bev, are you serious?” Mike asks, his voice cracking when Beverly suggests they contour his chest for the performance. “I feel like we do not need to do that.”   
  
“Aw, what’s the matter, Mikey? Makeup is fun!” Richie cries, grabbing a hold of the boy’s arms and rubbing them comfortingly. “You want those muscles of yours to pop on stage, yeah?”  
  
“C’mon, Mikey, be a good sport,” Ben says, nudging his friend.  
  
“Guys, the makeup isn’t the issue here,” Mike insists. “I don’t care about that… I’m just -- well, I’m a little -- I guess I’m ticklish,” he says the last word so low that if they all hadn’t been looking at him, they might not have caught what he said at all.  
  
“I’m sorry, Mikey, uh, one more time for the folks in the back?” Richie prompts playfully, cupping his hand around his ear.  
  
“I said I’m ticklish, Tozier, and I swear to God if you come near me, I’ll send you back down those stairs out there,” Mike threatens, poking Richie in the chest, and Richie smirks, his makeup making him look even more devious.   
  
“Oh, don’t worry, Mikey - I won’t touch you,” Richie promises, crossing his fingers over his heart. “But I still think you should let Bev do it - it’ll look nice…” Mike furrows his brow.   
  
“Are you saying that my muscles don’t always look nice, Tozier?” Mike deadpans, and Eddie snorts loudly when Richie’s jaw drops.  
  
“No!” he cries, whirling around to look at the rest of their friends. “You’re always beautiful, Mikey! Always! I just think -- you know, it’s _Rocky Horror…_ You kinda gotta be a little bit flashy, buddy...” Mike sighs and looks to where Beverly is perched on the arm of the sofa with the contour palette in hand, waiting for his final verdict. He says nothing, simply tosses his jacket onto the sofa behind him and shucks his t-shirt over his head, earning a wolf-whistle from Richie.  
  
“Make it quick, Marsh,” Mike pleads, unable to keep the smile off his face when he sees her eyes light up. “I’m not aiming to be tortured here…”  
  
“Never, darling,” Beverly swears, getting to her feet to cross the living room and plant herself directly in front of him while the others disappear into the kitchen in search of snacks. “Tozier, don’t you dare mess up your lipstick!”  
  
“On Eddie’s honor!” he cries.  
  
“What? Why mine!” his boyfriend shouts, and Beverly and Mike both chuckle at the sound of a mild scuffle they would know anywhere as Eddie shoving Richie.  
  
“Because, as our pals so eloquently point out on the regular, I have no honor, Eds,” Richie teases, and Mike rolls his eyes fondly as the boys continue to bicker. He watches Beverly ghost the bristles of her makeup brush through the darkest shade in her palette with wary eyes, and she looks up when she hears him let out a deep sigh.   
  
“You really that ticklish?” she jests, smiling up at him sweetly when he all but jolts from the sensation of the makeup brush on his ribs, and he nods.  
  
“Yeah, uh…” he blushes, doing his best to stay still. Beverly stops what she’s doing, waiting for his permission again, always, and she does not make another stroke until he gives it to her wordlessly, letting a small smile make its way onto his face that she returns. “It’s uh… it’s because of the nerve damage from the fire, I can’t feel much of anything on my shoulders and back,” Mike explains, jerking his chin towards one of his shoulders, and Beverly’s whole stomach wilts just as it always does when she looks at the burns there, the slightly off-colored flesh creeping up towards his throat that is a permanent reminder of all her friend has lost. “Because of that, I guess I’m like, I don’t know… hyper-aware of feeling everywhere else? Doc says it’s more of a mental thing than anything...” Beverly nods at his words as she dusts along the lines in his stomach, tracing them in a way that makes the already impressive muscles there pop out.   
  
“That makes sense,” she whispers gently as she collects more makeup on her brush, working upwards towards his chest now, and Mike thinks Beverly Marsh is one of the few people on this planet that he would let anywhere near his scars, physical or otherwise, as she too is painfully aware of making one’s way through life with them plastered on your body, stuck inside your head. He looks down at her then and tries to count the seemingly endless amount of freckles dotting her cheeks and nose. He gets to twenty-two before she looks up at him, grinning, and says, “Done! Beautiful as ever, Mikey.”   
  
“Well, if Beverly Marsh says so, then it must be so,” he teases, hooking his arm around her to pull her into a hug, but she holds her hands up between their chests.  
  
“Makeup, Mikey!” she reminds, and both of them start to laugh. He leans forward to kiss her forehead instead, and she pats his cheek affectionately. “Love you, Hanlon.”  
  
“Love you, Marsh,” he replies, and she smiles even wider before linking arms with him and dragging him into the kitchen to join the rest of their friends.  
  
  
Eddie is the last one to take a seat in front of Beverly, closing his eyes as she gets to work on his makeup. He isn’t wearing much of it for the performance, just a light layer of foundation and some mascara, but Beverly takes her time with the boy, sensing that he’s nervous, as if the slight shaking of his hands where they’re white-knuckling his knees wasn’t indication enough.   
  
“You doin’ alright in there, Eds?” Beverly coos as she dusts her brush along his cheekbones until his freckles shine like stars. He hums, and she wonders for a second if he hasn’t fallen asleep, but then his eyes open and he smiles at her timidly.   
  
“Yeah, I think so,” he whispers back, nodding, and Beverly smiles too, tapping the tip of his button nose with her brush and making him giggle. “You’re good at this stuff, Bevs, you should do it more.”   
  
“Maybe,” Beverly shrugs. “I’ve already talked to Auntie about getting a side job at the bakery. I’m waiting to hear back. It’d be nice to get some extra cash so Auntie doesn’t have to work so hard.”  
  
“There ya go,” Eddie grins. “But you should seriously think about doing something with fashion design. You have a real talent here, Bev. Even if you asked around during, like, prom time and saw if somebody wanted their makeup done, or to get their dresses hemmed… It’s something…”  
  
“I love you, Eds, but you and I both know that nobody’s coming to me for prom makeup,” Beverly chuckles sadly, but when she looks at him, there’s nothing but fondness in her eyes.  
  
“Well, they’d be stupid not to,” Eddie shrugs, and Beverly throws her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.  
  
“You’re the best boy in the world, you know that?” Beverly whispers, and Eddie kisses her fiery curls.  
  
“Not Bill?” he teases, and Beverly’s laughter fills the entire apartment, drawing all of their eyes back to the pair of them.  
  
“You two can be tied,” she amends as she pulls back, reaching for the hand-mirror on the edge of the coffee table. “You’re all done, love,” she says, passing it to him, but before Eddie even has time to lift it up and peer at his own reflection, Richie returns from the kitchen with a plateful of bagel bites that nearly tumbles out of his hand when he catches sight of his boyfriend. Stanley catches the plate at the last second, rolling his eyes at his lovestruck friend, but Richie has tunnel-vision, too entranced by Eddie to notice anything else happening around him.  
  
“Oh,” Richie sighs, eyes still wide, and Eddie is certain his entire body is blushing. He looks around the apartment quickly, searching for Beverly’s aunt, and when he doesn’t see her anywhere, he feels the wave of apprehension that had been rising inside him ebb and drift off when he realizes she’s left the room. He turns back around to face Richie, who has nearly closed the distance between them in the short amount of time Eddie had looked away, and Eddie cannot believe how quiet he’s being.  
  
“What?” Eddie asks quickly, feeling a bit self-conscious. “No good?” But when he peers up at his boyfriend through his lashes and finds Richie with the same intense, dumbfounded expression he’d had on his face when he’d kissed him in his attic the night of Homecoming, Eddie feels his heart knock wildly against his ribs like knuckles on a door.  
  
“You’re…” Richie whispers, searching through his mind for something, anything worthy of the way Eddie looks in that moment, but his best is evading him, infiltrated by trashmouth comments that he pushes far, far away. “God, Eddie, you’re -- gorgeous.”  
  
“Shut up…” Eddie flushes a brilliant pink and knocks his shoulder against Richie’s, looking down at his hands where they rest in his lap, and when he looks back up, Richie is shaking his head quickly.  
  
“Never,” Richie vows, and he curls his hand around the nape of Eddie’s neck, drawing him closer, and their lips aren’t more than an inch apart before Richie shoots backwards as Beverly yanks on his shirt collar. “What the fuck, Bev?!”   
  
“I am not letting you mess up my life’s work!” she scolds, plopping herself in between the two of them. “No kissing until after the performance!” Eddie chuckles breathlessly, but Richie’s jaw has come unhinged.  
  
“You honestly expect me not to kiss my boyfriend when he looks like that?” Richie gasps, pointing at Eddie, who winks at him devilishly, and Richie nearly faints. “Oh, fuck, I cannot do this. No way, Bevs - I’ll fix my lipstick myself, I swear.” He attempts to duck around her, but she meets his every move, blocking him, and he huffs loudly. “I hate you!”  
  
“You’ll thank me later,” she sings. “Now, c’mon,” she says, patting both of them on the knee, “you all still have to get dressed.”  
  
“Oh, Bev - Stan, Mike, and I were gonna get dressed at the Aladdin,” Eddie explains, looking to each of the other boys in turn, and both of them smile gratefully at him. The Halloween party was too recent for them not to be cautious. “We’d just -- we’ll feel better not having to ride through town in our costumes, you know?”   
  
“Of course, Eds,” Beverly says, grabbing his hand and gripping his fingers tightly before looking up at Stanley and Mike. “Whatever makes you the most comfortable…”  
  
They all smile at her as Bill and Ben gather up their costume pieces and disappear into different rooms to change out of their clothes. Bill is the first to reemerge, only needing to throw on a pair of black pants, black loafers, a white shirt whose neckline plunges to the middle of his chest in a low V, and a black jacket with high shoulders; his wig has been on his head, the long blonde curls tumbling down to the center of his back then, and he rejoins the group, twirling once to their lavish applause.  
  
“Th-That’s enough,” Bill begs, shushing them, but Stanley reaches for his hand and pulls him to his side, winding an arm around his waist. “Hon, I was thinking of actually growing out my hair like th-th-this. What do you think?”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Stanley chuckles, “but I definitely can’t say I mind this shirt so much…” Bill pushes him away when he leans in to kiss him, remembering Beverly’s rule, and Stanley grumbles quietly to himself as Ben resurfaces from the guest bedroom. He is wearing a black t-shirt beneath a leather vest with leopard fabric adorning the lapels, a pair of blue jeans, and black boots. Beverly squeals when she sees him.  
  
“Ben, you look adorable!” she chimes, bouncing on the balls of her feet excitedly, and Ben blushes all the way to the tops of his ears.   
  
“I have a giant gash in my head, Bevs,” he replies, gesturing to the fake wound she’d put on his forehead while doing his makeup, but Beverly bats his comment away like a fly.  
  
“Nonsense! You and your gash are precious,” she insists, sitting him down on the sofa. “I got your pins right here, baby!” she cries, shaking the small mason jar she held in her hands before handing it over to him. “Took me a bit to track some of them down, but I thought you’d like those…”  
  
Ben is speechless as he empties the jar’s contents onto the coffee table in front of him. There’s a pair of lips which is definitely supposed to represent Rocky Horror, as well as an old-timey film-camera paired with a clapperboard. There also seems to be a pin for each one of the Losers: a megaphone for Richie (“Hey, that’s fucked up!”); a camera for Mike (“Why is Mikey’s sweet but mine’s a motherfucking megaphone?” “Beep beep, Richie…”); a hummingbird for Stanley; an inkwell for Bill; a comic book speech bubble that reads _POW!_ for Eddie; a single flame for Beverly; there is even a tiny sailboat for Georgie, which makes Ben smile the most; and finally, one of a stack of books for himself.  
  
He looks up at Beverly, giving her a smile with a sort of warmth only he can muster. “Thanks, Beverly,” he says softly, and she kisses his brow, propping herself on his knee to hug him close to her.  
  
Richie pops to his feet next to rifle through the costume box, pulling out the individual pieces to his Frank-N-Furter outfit, and he hooks his finger through the straps of his stilettos before straightening back up.  
  
“Bevs, can I change in your room?” he asks, and when she nods, Richie darts down the hall excitedly.  
  
“Brace yourselves, mortals! Your master has nearly arrived!” he calls just before they hear Beverly’s door slam closed, and Stanley whirls around immediately to face Eddie.  
  
“How do you put up with him?” he groans and Eddie cocks his eyebrow.  
  
“He’s one of your best friends, Stan,” Eddie reminds with a chuckle.  
  
“I know,” Stanley whines. “Doesn’t mean he isn’t fucking unbearable sometimes…”  
  
Bill snorts. “You l-love him, hon. We all do.”  
  
“Who do you all love?” Shirley asks as she resurfaces from her bedroom where she had gone to get dressed for work. She is wearing her Freese’s Department Store t-shirt and a pair of khaki pants with white sneakers, her Manager pin tacked to her shirt.   
  
“You, Auntie!” Ben promises, and Shirley pats his shoulder. “We’re just so sad you won’t make the show…”   
  
“Oh, I am, too, Ben… I am, too…” Shirley sighs. “But this just means you’ll have to put it on for me another time, right?” she chuckles and all of the children smile at the noise; it is one of the most darling sounds they’ve ever heard.  
  
“Anything for you, Auntie,” Eddie insists, and the Losers all nod.  
  
“I hope everybody is sitting down because I don’t think any of you are ready for this!” Richie calls from Beverly’s bedroom.  
  
“While we’re young, Tozier! It’s only two hours till curtain!” Mike calls just as they hear the telltale sound of high-heels against wood flooring, and soon, Richie emerges from the poorly-lit hallway, fully-clad in his black corset, fishnets, and pearl necklace. Complete with the makeup from Beverly, he looks like he’s stepped out of the film itself, like he truly is Frank-N-Furter. “Holy shit,” Mike chuckles. “I don’t believe it, he actually fucking looks like Frank...”   
  
“Eat your heart out, Mikey!” Richie crows, making his way through the living room to sprawl out across Beverly and Eddie’s laps, crossing his long legs over the arm of the sofa. “What d’you think, Eds?” he asks playfully, but Eddie knows him, knows that beneath all of his sparkly clothes and flashy makeup, he only really wants Eddie’s approval.  
  
“You look good, Rich,” Eddie insists, carding his fingers through Richie’s curls and hoping so desperately that Richie won’t be hurt by his being so reserved whenever more than their friends are around, but Richie just smiles up at him, understanding, and the corners of his eyes crinkle from the sheer force of his grin.   
  
“See, it’s too bad the writers didn’t follow their gut and make Frank and Janet the main romance. You and me, we could give that crowd a real show, don’cha think?” Richie teases, pinching Eddie’s cheek, and Eddie bats his hand away.  
  
“Give it up, Tozier…” Stanley groans.  
  
“No! Frank and Janet were made for each other and the undeniable proof is hidden subtlety throughout the film; only an idiot wouldn’t pick up on it… Look at _Planet Shmanet Janet_ for example! Eds, you’re gonna play that scene to its strengths which are the romance aspect of it all, of course.”   
  
“I literally hate you both so much,” Ben sighs.  
  
“I thought we agreed on no arguing?” Shirley prompts gently, staring pointedly at the children in her living room, and each one of them sit up a little bit straighter, even the ones who hadn’t been fighting, if only out of respect.  
  
“We’re sorry, Auntie,” Stanley says quickly, and she pats his cheek as Richie gets clumsily to his feet, not used to the heels quite yet, and he throws his arms around her.  
  
“Yeah, we’re sorry!” he chimes, tucking his head into her shoulder, which is a feat considering he’s taller than her even without five inch heels, and making sure no makeup transfers onto her. Shirley pats the boy on his back and then pulls away slightly to take in his whole appearance. “What do you think, Auntie? Bev did a good job on the makeup, yeah?”  
  
“She sure did, kiddo,” Shirley nods. “You’re a real knockout,” she insists, and Richie’s eyes sparkle. “I’m glad I got to see you before work.”   
  
Richie’s face falls. “Work? But I thought you were coming, Auntie?” he cries, pouting.  
  
“Oh, kiddo, I’m sorry - I got called in,” Shirley explains, brushing his hair back and tucking one of the stray curls behind his ear. “You think you could put the show on for me another time?”   
  
“Um, of course?” Richie scoffs. “I’m going to use every excuse in the world to wear this outfit again…”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
It’s safe to say that on the night of the performance, there isn’t a single member of the little shadowcast of misfits who isn’t a bundle of nerves. The Aladdin is buzzing with the excited murmurs of Rocky regulars all filing into the cramped movie theater, men and women alike adorned in leather, lingerie, and glitter. Beverly and Stanley can be found huddled near the stage’s curtain, peeking out as the audience fills with people; the latter whines as the crowd swells, feeling his anxiety brewing deep in his gut, and Beverly hits his arm sharply.  
  
“Pull it together, dollface,” she says in her Columbia voice, adjusting the top-hat on her head and blowing him a kiss. “Magenta never shows fear, and Columbia is nothing without her! I need you on your game tonight, Uris…” Beverly punches Stanley’s shoulder and the force of the blow sends his maid cap falling off his head and tumbling to the ground. “Oops!” He smiles meekly at her when she ducks down with a giggle to retrieve it, placing it once more on his head.  
  
“Bevs, have you been drinking?” Stanley asks quietly, and judging from the dramatics of the way Beverly’s jaw drops, he already knows the answer.  
  
“Stanley, I am hurt and offended and hurt that you would even suggest -- ”  
  
“Beverly,” he says slowly, holding his hand out, and Beverly fishes a flask out of her coat pocket, dropping it into his open palm with a pout. “We all promised we wouldn’t pre-game,” he reminds, mock disappointment in his voice as he tucks the flask into his apron.  
  
“I needed something to calm my jitters,” Beverly insists childishly just as Bill joins them, wrapping an arm around both of them, and Stanley is almost instantly put at ease just by his presence.  
  
“S-So, are we ready to d-d-do this?” Bill wonders brightly, shaking their shoulders playfully, and the three share a small, sweet smile. Just then, Eddie rounds the corner soundlessly in his slip and plops down on a crate. No one much notices except for Richie who can’t take his eyes off of him.  
  
“Eddie,” he grits out, and everyone’s heads whip around, looking for him, before their eyes land on the boy sitting primly on the boxes.  
  
“Hey! Eds! I’m so glad the dress fits!” Beverly crows, to Eddie’s smile as he ignores Richie’s hungry look entirely.  
  
“Yeah! I’m so glad you decided to make it, thank you so much, Bevs.” She leans over Bill and gives him a hug. Eddie hugs her back and squeezes her gently before he can no longer take Richie’s heavy breathing next to him.  
  
“Yes, Richie? Something to say?” Richie just exhales slowly as he looks Eddie up and down, stars in his eyes.  
  
“I love being gay,” he sighs dramatically, hands clasped at his chin. Everyone laughs, and Eddie blushes, shoving him hard.  
  
“Shut the fuck up, loser,” Eddie mumbles petulantly, secretly loving his friends’ attention. While everyone’s still in stitches, Richie leans over and murmurs something into Eddie’s ear.  
  
“I’d kiss the shit outta you right here, right now, in front of everyone, if Bev wouldn’t string me up for it.” It’s said in a dark, velvet tone and Eddie’s spine goes rigid and he starts to breathe heavily as well. He gives Richie a significant look and mouths after. Richie’s whole body heats up at the thought of getting to hold Eddie when he looks like that.  
  
Their laughter dies out as their attention is drawn to a sudden commotion in the far corner.   
  
“Mikey!” Richie cries, wolf-whistling when Mike joins them backstage, clad only in a pair of incredibly short (and even tighter) gold shorts. “God, I might sweat all my makeup off just looking at you!” Mike rolls his eyes.   
  
“Shut up, Tozier,” he insists, a bashful smile on his face, but Richie is already twirling him around lavishly.   
  
“Eds, do you see this perfect specimen of a man?!” Richie shouts unabashedly, throwing his arms in Mike’s direction as if the other boy were a grand prize on a gameshow, and the entire group is stifling laughter, all shaking their heads at their friend. The only person who isn’t laughing is Nick; in fact, Nick is doing everything in his power to keep his face straight, or at the very least, expressionless, and he is hoping desperately that the poor lighting backstage is concealing the unexpected rush of color to his face. He tugs at the collar of his dress shirt, suddenly feeling very hot, and lets his eyes dart around the space where they are all standing, searching for something, anything to fix his gaze on that is not Mike.  
  
“Richie, where have you been? Mike has always looked like this…” Eddie says, chuckling from where he is sitting on top of one of the many crates piled up near the lightboard, his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap. “All those hours of hard labor on the farm, right, Mikey?”  
  
“You know it, Kaspbrak,” Mike nods, bumping his fist against Eddie’s with a grin.  
  
“All work and no play makes Mikey a pretty boy,” Richie crows, perfectly-sculpted eyebrows jumping, and when Mike winks in his direction, Richie pretends to faint, falling across Eddie’s lap with his fishnet-clad legs in the air. “God, so many handsome men in this room, I could expire on the spot!” Richie purrs in his sultry Frank-N-Furter drawl, and he fans his made-up face with his hand. “You’re looking quite beautiful yourself, Spaghetti Man - lavender is definitely your color,” he insists, taking in the sight of Eddie’s dress; it was custom-made by Beverly, per her request (“You’ll be more comfortable in something that was made for you, hon…”) and it hugs him in all the right places as far as Richie is concerned.  
  
“Thank you,” Eddie says, smiling down at Richie, whose head is still in his lap, and Richie snatches his hand to kiss the back of it. He makes a show of it for the sake of saving face, acts like it’s a joke so Nick doesn’t get suspicious, but the look in Richie’s eyes when he peers up at Eddie is one of fondness and adoration, and Eddie swears they’re floating ten feet off the ground. “And don’t call me that.”  
  
“Oh, please, you love it,” Richie scoffs, smiling from behind Eddie’s hand, still pressed to his lips. Eddie can feel his mouth moving when he speaks. He is suddenly very aware of Nick watching them, that anybody could come backstage and see them, and shoves at Richie playfully.   
  
“Get away from me, I’m allergic to your disgusting trashmouth. I’ll break out in hives and we can’t have that for the performance.”  
  
Richie’s eyes roll heavenward, sighing as he rolls off of Eddie’s lap ungracefully. He barely catches himself in an upright position due to the heels. “Man, these things are a real bitch. Bev, you weren’t wrong at Homecoming.”  
  
“I told you! High heels are a trap, guys. A consumer, unfeminist trap,” Beverly rants, heated a bit more than she would’ve been due to the alcohol in her veins. Ben pats her hand.  
  
“We know, Bev. You don’t have to wear them ever again.”  
  
“But I will,” she sighs. “I look great with a little leg.”  
  
“Th-That’s the truth, Beverly!” Bill cries. “Sing it!”  
  
“Bow to me, everyone. I am the queen of this shadowcast,” Beverly shouts, spreading her arms wide. Ben, Nick, Mike and Bill all get down on their knees and start bowing. Eddie and Stanley would too if the backstage floor didn’t look utterly disgusting, so they offer her a few rounds of applause and a wolf-whistle instead.  
  
“You’re the queen?!” Richie hollers. “But I have the crown! And the moxie!”  
  
“Oh, please, Tozier, I’m the queen of moxie,” Beverly shoots back hotly. Eddie laughs.  
  
“Oh, my God, are you guys seriously fighting over who’s got more moxie? You are both moxie-filled royalty. Now, can we please get back to the matter at hand? We have…” Eddie checks his watch, “six minutes until showtime.”  
  
“Eds, you gotta take the watch off for the performance, it’s inauthentic to the craft,” Richie whines.  
  
“And what happens if we miss an entrance?” Eddie asks, hands on his hips. “Who exactly is going to keep us from falling into a pit of disorganization?”  
  
“Oh, please, darling,” Richie says, remnants of his Frank-N-Furter Voice in his tone, able to use pet names in front of Nick under the guise of being in-character. “As if you’d ever let us be anything resembling disorganized.” Richie smiles fondly at him and Eddie rolls his eyes, fighting his own kind grin pulling at the corners of his mouth as he tugs his watch off of his wrist and places it in his bag beneath his change of clothes for after the performance.   
  
“Alright, well, now that everybody’s authentic, I think we’ve got a show to put on…” Ben says, grinning widely at his small but full circle of friends. “Break a leg, everyone.”  
  
Beverly hooks her arm through his with a very Columbia-esque squeal, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she reaches for Bill’s hand as well. Bill twists his hand through hers, his other arm wound tightly around Stanley’s waist. Stanley holds his hand out to Mike, who clasps it firmly in his own before offering his other hand to Nick, and there is a beat of silence, a moment that seems to ripple through the space between them just before Nick twists their fingers together, but they both say nothing. Nick turns then to Richie, who stifles a Trashmouth comment and accepts the gesture while holding his other hand out to Eddie, who takes it without a moment’s hesitation. And then finally, Eddie grabs Ben’s hand, and the circle is complete in a way that feels completely new but familiar at the same time. Safe is what all of them think as they peer around at one another. Home.  
  
They aren’t aware of it, but Paul Keebler has been watching the entire exchange with a fond smile. The man has heard about what happened at the Homecoming Dance, if only due to the fact that it was all anyone of any age could talk about for nearly a month afterwards. He heard all about Richie from behind the counter of Secondhand Clothes, Secondhand Rose; stupid, funny, brave, deadly. He heard it all when he came out in the early 80s as well. The words used to describe Richie were just as colorful, but it didn’t stop him from going out in public. He thinks Richie is braver than any 16-year-old should need to be. It makes his heart ache for better days.  
  
He steps out of the shadows and lightly claps Richie on the shoulders and shakes them playfully. “You ready, Dr. Frank-N-Furter?”  
  
Richie cranes his neck and he smiles, his painted lips making the expression all the more exaggerated. Paul never thought anyone would ever want to put on a shadowcast in Derry with him. He’s always traveled to Bangor every Halloween to join one there. But the idea that there’s a whole new generation of kids ready to break down barriers that shouldn’t be there in the first place makes Paul feel like he could leave like he’s always wanted to and the provincial town of his youth might not fall into blindness and obtuseness without his presence to keep them in line. He’s heard the blond boy in the circle’s father is gay himself. Maybe he can take his pride and his freedom and never look back.   
  
“Born ready, Dr. Scott.”  
  
  
Eddie is standing just offstage, concealed by the curtain as _Science Fiction / Double Feature_ comes to a close, and he is twisting his white-gloved hands together as he tries rapidly to run through his lines in a matter of minutes. Nick is waiting in the opposite wing for his own entrance, looking timid but nowhere near as frazzled as Eddie.  
  
Eddie envies him that he can be so coy about the whole thing, that he only appears to have a mild case of performance anxiety while Eddie is two seconds from a complete breakdown as he whispers his lines to himself under his breath. So focused, in fact, on what he is preparing to do, Eddie doesn’t even notice that Richie is beside him until he feels him take hold of his shaking hand.  
  
“You okay, doll?” Richie asks when Eddie nearly jumps out of his skin.  
  
“Oh, yeah - I’ll be just fine,” Eddie whispers back, albeit in a tone that doesn’t necessarily convince Richie.  
  
“Don’t overthink it, Eds, just have fun,” Richie coos, rubbing circles into the center of Eddie’s palm. “You know your lines and you know the choreography - just relax and let the rest of it happen.” Eddie laughs breathlessly, leaning against Richie’s shoulder and not caring that Nick has a perfect view from where he is standing directly across from them. He needs Richie’s closeness now more than he needs Nick to think he’s a societal norm, but that doesn’t stop Eddie from gazing warily across the way to see if Nick is paying them any attention. Richie follows his boyfriend’s gaze and frowns. “I swear, Eds, if that clown gets handsy with you -- ”   
  
“Oh, my God, baby,” Eddie laughs. “Now it’s your turn to relax…” He pokes Richie in the side playfully and Richie smiles, glad to see Eddie loosening up, getting out of his own head. “Besides, _Dammit Janet!_ is just a proposal…”  
  
“Yeah, well, don’t forget I proposed first. You have been promised, Kaspbrak,” Richie reminds and Eddie turns to him, batting his eyes sweetly.  
  
“Don’t worry, Richie, your gum wrapper ring holds the most special place in my heart,” Eddie reassures, and Richie grins so wide it threatens to swallow him whole. He bops the brim of the hat on Eddie’s head.  
  
“You’re cute,” he says before adding, “now go make me proud…” And Eddie is so completely breathless that he practically glides onto the stage when his cue sounds. Richie watches him from the wings, grin growing wider and wider all the while as the number goes off without a single hitch. Eddie catches Richie’s eye from the stage, his brilliant smile rivaling the stage-lights at their feet. Richie blows him a kiss, Eddie catches it, and both of them feel unstoppable.  
  
 _Time Warp_ comes to a raucous end, leaving Bill, Stanley, and Beverly sweaty but grinning all the while at the sound of the growing applause, and Richie can feel himself growing anxious. It is just moments away from his grand entrance as Frank-N-Furter, and he is wishing desperately that Eddie wasn’t already onstage and could give him a word or two of encouragement before he heads out to perform Sweet Transvestite. His knobby knees are trembling against his will and he is fighting the desire to kick himself for not rehearsing more in the heels, unable to rid his mind of a horribly persistent vision of him tripping and falling off the stage into the crowd.   
  
Richie sucks in a sharp breath as Eddie and Nick start in on the lines that lead into his entrance, shaking out his shoulders like a marathoner gearing up for a run, and he swallows every insecurity, every second thought, pushes them far down into the pit of his belly, and he steps into the lone spotlight on the stage, precisely on cue. It helps that the first thing Frank does is smile at Janet, because as soon as Richie and Eddie lock eyes, he is sure that he can do this. Eddie shrieks along with the Janet in the film projected on the screen behind them, falling into Nick’s waiting arms as Richie struts about the stage, shaking his hips in a way that makes Eddie glad he is supposed to be playing flustered. Ben and Mike whoop from their place just off-stage, along with the rest of the audience, and Richie flashes a smirk in their direction, feeding off of the energy of the entire room as none of them can keep the smiles off their faces. Richie parades lavishly around the stage, crooning to each of his friends individually as well as some audience members who are reaching up to grab his outstretched hands. He blows them kisses as his number comes to a close and Eddie has to hold his hands firmly behind his back to stop himself from joining in on the thunderous applause, eyes shining with unshed tears as he watches Richie bask in the glow of the stage-lights, drinking in the adulation before turning to smile playfully at Eddie and Nick, his red lips almost glowing as the light reflects off of them.  
  
“So,” he drawls in his Frank-N-Furter Voice, “come up to the lab… and see what’s on the slab. I see you shiver with antici--…” Richie stops speaking and the entire audience is in the palm of his hand, some of them even leaning towards him as his eyes dart mischievously around the room, wondering just how long he can milk this pause. The audience is heckling, _say it, say it, say it!_ at him, and Richie smirks. “ --pation…” The audience roars, stomping their feet wildly, and Richie feels like he’s on top of the world when he turns to find Eddie beaming at him, pride in his eyes. _Pride,_ Richie thinks, feeling the word swell inside him, its warmth traveling to every nerve in his body from the crown of his head to his heel-clad toes, filling him to the brim until he is sure he will burst at the seams with it. _I can get used to this._  
  
  
  
To put it frankly, Richie is having way too much fun. His eyes alight with mirth, he twirls around Mike, gliding his hands over Mike’s biceps as he lifts the weights Richie handed him at the beginning of _I Can Make You A Man._ Mike has never been one to feel self-conscious, but standing there in nothing but a pair of glorified boxer briefs while one of his oldest and dearest friends manhandles him in front of his crush has got to be at the top of the list for Things He Never Expected to Do. _Crush._ The word plays on a continuous loop in his mind as he lifts the weights almost robotically - one two, one two, one two - and Mike is glad to have something in his hands to distract himself from reading too deeply into Nick’s transfixed gaze. Mike’s eyes drop down to the weights in his hands, and because of this, he does not see the way Nick’s eyes are following every upward curl of his arm as he brings the weights to his chest. Mike has been wrestling with his feelings for some time, stifling them. Not out of fear of not being accepted - shit, Mike thinks, biting back a laugh as Richie barrels on through the scene, he couldn’t have a better friend group for support as he questions his sexuality. Mike has always defaulted to at least bisexual in his own mind, even though that label never felt quite right, knowing that although he’s never necessarily found another boy attractive, he wouldn’t be opposed to dating one if he ever did. And he truly never has. Until now, a voice that sounds absurdly like Richie’s sounds in his mind, but he shakes it off, remembering Kate, and regains the focus he needs to continue on with the performance, resorting to deal with his mess of emotions at a later time.  
  
He looks up sharply when the opening cue for Hot Patootie blares from the speakers, signalling Ben’s entrance (and a sharp cry of “Eddie!” from Beverly, who runs over to where Ben is to dance with him as he sings along) and Mike smiles watching them together, feeling sorry for anyone who doesn’t have the friends that he has just as Richie takes a plastic axe to the side of Ben’s head in an uncanny rendition of Frank’s murder of Eddie in the film. Ben falls dramatically to the ground, rolling into the wings as Richie chases after him, axe held high in the air as Beverly wails in Stanley’s arms, and then Richie reemerges, making a huge show of wiping an imaginary bead of sweat from his stenciled-on eyebrow.  
  
“Oh, don’t be upset,” Richie coos when Mike shoots him a disapproving look, staying silent as Rocky does not have any spoken lines. “It was a mercy killing.” The reprise of _I Can Make You A Man_ begins, and Mike flexes his arm right on cue, causing Richie to almost faint in his arms, not unlike how he had backstage before the show started. Mike catches his friend instinctively, hoisting him into his arms bridal-style, and the two make their way off-stage to a warped cut of the traditional wedding march while the crowd shrieks and hollers, stomping their feet again. Ben is grinning in the wings and he claps both Richie and Mike on the shoulder.  
  
“It’s going great,” he beams, still a little winded from his number, and Mike and Richie smile back. They couldn’t agree more.  
  
  
  
The next time Richie takes the stage, he feels the same nerves he had pushed aside at the beginning of his performance creeping up on him again now, only this time for an entirely different reason. This is his first of two scenes alone with Eddie, and it’s a sex scene.  
  
Despite his many vehement protests to the contrary, Richie Tozier is a virgin, and he knows that his boyfriend is, too; he and Eddie have barely covered the basics during their own adolescent fumblings, deciding to approach the physicality of their relationship at an almost glacial pace, neither of them seeing any reason at all to rush things that don’t need to be rushed. But now, as Richie crawls onto the makeshift bed where Eddie is lying behind a curtain that is tied to the catwalk above the stage, Richie wishes he had at least a little experience to play off of, something to put his frantic mind at ease. Eddie’s head snaps up in perfect time and Richie doesn’t like the look on his face one bit; he looks terrified, like he might be sick, and Richie melts, his own anxiety drifting away in wake of the overwhelming urge to calm Eddie down.   
  
“Hi, doll,” Richie says quietly, even though he knows both of their mics are turned off - one of Beverly’s brilliant ideas - and he leans down to kiss Eddie’s cheek as the movie plays high over their heads. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“I’m okay,” Eddie whispers back, and Richie is sure he means it when he looks into his eyes and finds all traces of fear gone. “I trust you.” Richie smiles, ears perking up as he tunes in to the movie, recognizing that it’s now time for Janet to realize it’s Frank in bed with her, not Brad, and for her to get very angry with him.  
  
“Likewise, Spaghetti Man,” Richie whispers with a knowing grin, nudging Eddie towards what he has to do, and it works like a charm. Eddie shoves his chest just as Janet screams at Frank in the movie, and the two boys smile at each other, happy to be blocking out the audience, the world, to just be Richie and Eddie in the midst of all this chaos, this grit and glitter and sex that cannot touch them here.  
  
Eddie lets his head fall back against the pillow with a giggle, and Richie cannot help himself - he kisses him, sweetly, delicately, and he doesn't care if the gesture is too soft, too fond for _Rocky._ All he cares about is that Eddie trusts him, that Eddie can lie on a pile of blankets and pillows with him and act out something so intimate, that he can giggle and smile up at him as Richie pulls back to find his brown eyes shining, the stage-lights bouncing off of them. Richie peppers his jaw with light kisses, whispering sweet things in his ear, things that make Eddie’s cheeks grow adorably pink, and they stay that way long after this scene comes to an end and Eddie returns to the wings as Nick takes his place for the scene between Brad and Frank.  
  
  
Eddie is still floating on air when he returns to an empty stage following Richie and Nick’s exit, and Eddie paces the floor, hand held dramatically to his head as he laments along with Janet about how much better off they’d all be if only this or if only that.  
  
This is the moment right before _Touch-A Touch-A Touch Me_ when Janet seduces Rocky, and Richie is standing straight-backed in the wings, arms folded across his chest and chanting _it’s fake, it’s fake, it’s fake_ in his head as he watches Mike paw at his boyfriend while Beverly and Stanley giggle off to the right of them, squealing just as their counterparts in the film do while spying on Janet and Rocky. The pained look on Richie’s face must be noticeable, because suddenly Bill is beside him, and just his proximity alone knocks sense into Richie, who shakes his head sharply like he’s hoping his insecurities might just as well fall out of his head through his ear and he could be rid of them altogether.  
  
“Eddie’s doin’ a good job, don’t you think, R-Rich?” Bill says, nudging Richie with his elbow.  
  
“Like always,” Richie says back fondly, returning his gaze to watch Eddie drinking in the limelight and looking blissfully unafraid. “All ready for the grand finale, Billy Boy?” he asks, taking in Bill’s recreation of Riff-Raff’s Rose _Tint My World_ outfit with a grin. “It’s gonna be a doozy.”   
  
“It sure is, buddy.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
After the others needed to quite literally drag Richie off the stage following their curtain call (“My public demands an encore! I have to give the people what they want!”), they all head to the Hanlon farm to celebrate. They ride their bikes over to the quaint little plot of land Mike calls home, hollering as they fly through the streets of Derry, still coming down from the high of their successful performance. Stanley and Richie are racing to the end of Jackson Street, the latter entirely upright on his bike as he pedals so quickly the spokes of his wheels seem to vanish, and Mike feels like they’re thirteen again, racing to the sandlot to play a late night game in the brisk air of an October night, not caring that they might wake up the next morning with a cough or a tickle in their throats. Mike thinks that was always a fair trade for a night with his friends, and he’s never asked them, but he’s sure they’d all agree.  
  
Mike’s grandfather doesn’t ask a lot of questions when a gaggle of teens covered in glitter and sweat arrive on his porch; they all brought clothing to change into at the Aladdin following the performance, not foreseeing a great outcome if they’d showed up at the Hanlon’s clad in their Rocky attire. Richie is the only one who did not bother to clear his face of his makeup or change his clothes, and he gives a glossy red grin when Leroy Hanlon opens the door to let them into the house, brow half-cocked in confusion.   
  
“Thanks, Gramps!” Richie chimes, throwing his arms out for a hug but conceding when Leroy instead offers him his hand.  
  
“Halloween’s not for another couple of days, son,” the elderly man says, taking in the sight of Richie’s done-up face, complete with eyeshadow that climbs to his eyebrows and a pair of false eyelashes that Beverly’s aunt had needed to help him put on.   
  
“It’s never too early to get spooky, Gramps,” Richie insists, penciled-on brows wiggling, and Leroy chuckles with a shrug.  
  
“I suppose not,” he sighs, eyes scanning the rest of the group. His gaze lands on Nick and he looks perplexed. “Which one are you?”  
  
Nick laughs nervously. “My name’s Nicholas Englehart, sir. It’s nice to meet you.” He holds his hand out in front of him, and Leroy takes it, pointing between him and Richie.  
  
“See here, Richard - you could learn a thing or two about manners from Nicholas here…”   
  
“Gramps! I’m on my best behavior for you, always!” Richie protests, but Leroy is too busy speaking to Nick to notice.  
  
“Englehart, huh? Your pops own the sailing shop in town?”  
  
“The very same, sir.”   
  
“Yes, he’s a good man… Well, welcome - I trust Michael will be a fine host for you all.” He turns to his grandson. “Did you need help settin’ up the bonfire out back?”   
  
“Nah, I got it, Gramps - thank you, though,” Mike says, squeezing his grandfather’s shoulder.  
  
“Okay - but be careful, Mike, please,” Leroy Hanlon begs in a whisper, his eyes tired, and Mike nods solemnly, seeing the flames from the night his parents lost their lives still burning deep in his grandfather’s eyes; he and Mike had been the only ones to make it out, but Mike knew that part of Leroy Hanlon had been left in that fire, swallowed in ash by the same heat that had stolen away his only son. “You come fetch me if you need help, understand?”  
  
“Loud and clear, Gramps,” Mike promises, and Leroy pats his grandson on the back twice before shuffling up the steps and into his bedroom, leaving them to have their party. He is not gone five minutes before the doorbell rings again, and Mike opens the door to let Kate inside, the two of them sharing a smile.  
  
“Hey, stranger, glad you could make it,” Mike smiles.  
  
“Thanks for the invite,” she replies, tossing her varsity jacket onto the coat rack by the front door as she looks around at them all, eyes bright and cheeks wind-bitten. “Sorry I couldn't make the show - my dad had me on lockdown at the shop tonight and I was just now able to sneak away. How’d it go?!” She reaches for Nick’s hand absentmindedly and he gives a small smile as he opens his mouth to speak, but he is interrupted by Richie, who wedges himself between the pair. Richie casually tosses an arm around Kate’s shoulder, quite easy for him considering Kate is 5 inches shorter than him _not_ in high heels.   
  
“Well, I was just spectacular, Katie Lane…” Richie informs in a playful drawl as they walk through the familiar house. “The audience was eating out of the palm of my hand!”  
  
“You're the real picture of modesty, huh, Rich?” Kate giggles, shaking her head at him, and he winks at her.  
  
“Aw, Kate, don’t be so hard on him, he really did a phenomenal job. Honestly!” Nick crows, smiling widely. He looks around at the rest of the group who are now gathering to sit at the logs around the fire pit. Everyone looks at Richie, nodding and smiling, even Mike who had been working on setting the logs up moments ago.  
  
“Yeah, man, you brought down the house,” Mike offers.  
  
“Aw, shucks, guys,” Richie says in his Goofy Voice, smiling in a way that only could be described as goofy. They all laugh.  
  
“Richie, that’s barely any different than your regular voice,” Eddie teases from across the circle and Richie sticks his tongue out at him.  
  
“Says Eddie Kaspbrak, voice cracker extraordinaire,” Richie says, intentionally cracking his voice.  
  
“Hey! It took your voice years to drop, bucko, don’t blame me for your misgivings!”  
  
“Your mom wasn’t complaining.”  
  
“Oh, that’s it,” Eddie shoots back hotly, standing up and stalking over to Richie who has a mischievous smile on his face. If there’s one thing Richie loves most in this world, it’s riling up Eddie.  
  
“Okay, okay, break it up, you two,” Bill says from his seat next to Stanley with a smile on his face. Just his voice alone causes Eddie to stop in his tracks. “We don’t want to give the n-n-newbies a show.”  
  
“Oh, you sure about that, Billy?” Richie smirks lazily. Eddie and Stanley both roll their eyes.  
  
“He’s sure, dipshit,” Eddie pipes, but Richie catches his smile when he turns to go back to his seat on the log and Richie leans back, grinning triumphantly as the fire catches and Mike lets out a delighted noise. He begins circling the fire with the poker, as if he’s protecting his friends from the flames. Bill gives his back a sad smile but says nothing, knowing there’s ultimately nothing he can say to heal the trauma caused from the fire that day.  
  
“Hey, Richie,” Kate says, almost offhandedly. “I thought it was really brave what you did at the dance.” She says it directly to Richie but it makes the rest of the circle go quiet as well. The only noise that can be heard is the crackling of the fire and the cicadas in the distance. “Really made a queer kid like me feel safe.”  
  
Richie lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. _“Oh.”_ And he launches himself at her, jostling Ben in the process, who lets out a thick laugh. As Kate giggles and wraps her arms around him, Richie realizes that this is what being ‘out and proud’ is all about: making other people feel safe to be out and proud as well. He feels even more on top of the world than he did with the crowd’s adoring praise hoisted onto him. With his new friend’s approval, with his new friend’s _solidarity,_ he feels invincible.  
  
“You’re good people, Katherine Thackeray,” Richie says, letting out a laugh of his own and tapping her on the back. The rest of them laugh with him, varying degrees of relieved, Beverly being the most. She thought before that she was the only queer girl in this entire town, but meeting Kate was a relief in so many ways for her. Kate is kind and nourishing and gentle and talented, all without sacrificing her intelligence. For Beverly to find out that also includes her sexuality is a game changer for her. She tilts her head and her laughter fades into a smile, seeing Kate in an entirely new light, not simply because she’s queer, but because she’s not afraid to admit it. Being a girl is hard enough, Beverly knows, and it restores faith in her heart she thought she’d lost that maybe being a girl doesn’t have to be hard alone. She loves her friends, her boys, her losers, but she will admit that it’s incredibly nice to have another girl around.  
  
Eddie closes his eyes and sighs, smiling and shaking his head. He’s safe now, he realizes. Everyone here is safe. He can be free. He remembers Cal saying I was right and because of that, he gets up, walks around the fire and sits directly in Richie’s lap. Richie’s eyebrows jump and his hands immediately go to Eddie’s waist out of instinct more than anything. Eddie puts his arm around Richie’s neck and touches his forehead to Richie’s temple.  
  
“Oh,” Nick says, smiling. “Good. That’s good.”   
  
_“Oh,”_ Kate says, more forcefully, a bit choked, like she’s shocked to be trusted at all. “That’s so good.” Eddie smiles against Richie’s cheek.  
  
“Thought we weren’t gonna give them a show, babe?” Richie jokes which causes Eddie to take his forehead away from Richie’s and slap the back of his scalp lightly. “Ow!”  
  
“Oh, come on, I barely touched you.”  
  
“Too bad, too,” Richie smirks, to the rest of the group’s groans, including Eddie’s.   
  
“This is really what it’s like?” Nick asks the rest of them, eyebrows up as far as they can go.  
  
“Unfortunately. Welcome to our hell,” Stanley comments.  
  
“Hey! We’re cute!” Richie protests.  
  
“No, I’m cute. You’re disgusting,” Eddie retaliates with a smile plastered to his face.  
  
“Can’t argue with that one, sweetcheeks,” Richie sighs, smiling helplessly back at him. As Stanley, Bill and Beverly begin discussing queer culture with Kate, Richie lets out a pleased sigh and rests his forehead against Eddie’s jaw. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispers. “I know it’s not easy.”   
  
Eddie shrugs. “Easier than I thought,” he whispers back. Richie pulls back, eyebrows raised.  
  
“Oh, yeah?” Richie asks, a bit shocked. Eddie nods, smiling.   
  
“Yeah,” he says, peacefully. “I trust everyone here.”  
  
Richie smiles at him, and it blooms across his face slowly, beautifully, like a cold, spring morning that gives way to a warmer afternoon. Richie remembers a few months prior when Eddie insisted he trusts no one. He's come so far in such a short amount of time, and feels that word swell up within him again: _pride._ His feelings are evident on his face, as they always are, and Eddie has never felt safer.  
  
Ben suggests holding a ghost story-telling contest soon after that, which the rest of his friends immediately jump on. They spend the better part of two hours swapping one ridiculous tale after the next, coupled with outrageous acting from Richie as the moon hangs high overhead - which, to Richie, was just another spotlight.  
  
“You’re a r-regular Clara Bow, Rich…” Bill insists with a wide smile just as Richie falls limp in Stanley’s arms in a mock-faint to rival any 1920’s starlet; Richie had dragged Stanley to his feet against his will to play the Victor Frankenstein to his Monster as Beverly had regaled them all with a stunning retelling of Mary Shelley’s classic, earning herself a round of applause from the whole circle, loudest cheers coming from Eddie and Kate.  
  
“Every day English teachers spend mulling over tired male authors when writers like Mary Shelley get pushed under the rug is a disgrace,” Kate grumbles, and Beverly tips the brim of her Columbia hat towards her with a nod. “She created an entire genre, for fuck’s sake - a genre that men lap up like dogs! You think there’d be more respect.”  
  
Beverly puts a hand over her own heart. “God, it is so wonderful to have another girl around,” she sighs, eyes heavenward. She smiles at Kate and Kate is sure it isn’t just the open flame between them that’s setting her nerves ablaze. “Billy, the floor is all yours,” Beverly insists, bowing to let Bill take her place in front of their friends. Bill steps up to a boisterous applause, which he waves aside bashfully.    
  
“Alright, th-that’s enough,” he says with a shy giggle when Stanley wolf-whistles, and he runs his hand through his hair quickly, clearing his throat.  
  
“You need some assistance, Billy Boy?” Richie pipes up from where Eddie had yanked him back down to sit beside him. “I’ve got you covered - what story are you tellin’? _Dracula?”_ he says in a god-awful vampire Voice that makes the rest of the circle groan. “You say it, I play it, buddy!”  
  
“No thanks, R-Rich - I can h-h-handle this one on my own.”  
  
  
By the time Bill wraps up his story, complete silence has fallen over his audience, all of them looking, to some degree, utterly terrified: Beverly’s face has gone so white that even her freckles have paled and she has a death grip on Mike’s elbow, who is picking at the frayed knee of his jeans, something any member of the group would flag as a nervous habit of his; Kate’s face is partially obscured by her fingers, her temple pressed to Nick’s shoulder, who looks like he is mere seconds from vomiting; Eddie isn’t sure if he’s trembling from the cold or from fear, and for the first time that Bill can remember since the conception of their friendship, Richie is completely speechless; Ben cannot even look at Bill, eyes trained instead on his hands as he twists them in his lap, but Stanley is looking at his boyfriend warily.  
  
“Christ, babe, I know we said to tell ghost stories, but I don’t think any of us wants to lose sleep…” Stanley whispers when his boyfriend sits back down beside him and puts his arm around him.  
  
Bill frowns slightly. “W-Was it too scary?” he asks. The response to this is almost comical; everybody falls into some form of nervous laughter. Richie even puffs out a loud breath that turns into the kind of noiseless laugh one lets out in an attempt to appear indifferent.  
  
“Too scary?” Richie huffs, but his voice cracks suspiciously in a way that makes Bill furrow his brow skeptically, a small smile returning to his face when he sees Richie is holding Eddie’s hand so tightly the other boy’s fingers are red. “Don’t flatter yourself, Billy Boy…”  
  
“N-Never, Rich… Never.” Bill smiles. “I th-thought you’d be the w-w-worst out of everyone. I know how much you hate -- ”  
  
 _“Do not say clowns!”_ Richie squeaks, clamping his hand over Bill’s smirking mouth. “God, it was torture enough listening to you describe it…”  
  
“Who said it was a cl-clown, Rich?” Bill asks playfully, and Richie’s nose wrinkles distastefully. “I n-never said what the m-monster actually was…”  
  
“That’s what made it so scary, Bill…” Eddie whispers, and the rest of them nod. “The fact that you… left it up to us to picture what -- what it was. Kinda reminded me of Beverly and I’s comic for Richie.”  
  
”Yeah! That’s where I p-pu-pulled inspiration from!” Bill smiles excitedly.  
  
“That sure was something, Denbrough - did you ever think about writing for the school paper? There’s a creative writing section and if you’ve got shit like that in you, you’d dominate the scene for sure…” Kate says, and Bill’s face is burning up, still incapable of seeing the talent in himself and therefore winded by compliments such as this one.  
  
“I’ve thought about it before, b-b-but I don’t think I need to d-draw anymore attention to myself after Homecoming…” Bill admits, and Kate nods with a hum before grinning widely.   
  
“Well, you could always submit your work anonymously!” Bill’s eyes widen.  
  
“I c-could?” he stammers, and Kate nods again, this time with a wink.  
  
“I’m on the editorial staff; you can submit stuff through me I’ll be sure to exclude your name from it…”  
  
“Okay, yeah… I’ll d-d-definitely think about it…”  
  
“Shit,” Richie scoffs. “I might actually start reading the school paper now if Bill’s stuff is gonna be in it.”   
  
Kate shoves him, but her eyes are still playful. “Watch it, Tozier! A lot of hard work goes into those papers…”  
  
“I meant no disrespect, sweetheart,” Richie says, hands held up in surrender. Kate narrows her eyes at him, still grinning, and he crosses his finger over his heart. “Honest,” he swears, but then something glints in his eyes and he adds, “they make great coasters.”  
  
As expected, Kate flings herself at him with a shout of “You’re toast, Tozier!”, her small hands pummeling against his arms in half-hearted punches, the both of them laughing loudly, the type of laughter that starts in the pit of your belly and works its way through the rest of your body until it has nowhere left to go but out, the type of laughter that seems to follow Richie wherever he goes, spreading to everyone around him.  
  
“While I’d love to continue winning this fight, Tiny Dancer,” Richie grins, returning to sit beside Eddie, “I think it’s time we really got this party goin’, huh?” He wiggles his perfectly-crafted eyebrows and Eddie shoves him. “Truth or dare, anyone?” He looks around at each of his friends, and when he isn’t met with any protests aside from a dramatic eye-roll from Stanley, he claps his hands together with a whooping cry. “Perfect! And as per usual, whomsoever should refuse to perform a dare must take a hit from the flask,” Richie decrees, waving Beverly’s confiscated flask that he had managed to pickpocket from Stanley earlier that night (“How the fuck did you get that, Tozier?!”). “That being said - who’s the first victim?”   
  
Ben sighs, pushing the hair out of his eyes, and he squares his shoulders before saying, “Somebody’s gotta do it - might as well be me.”  
  
Richie salutes lavishly. “Your service is most appreciated, General Hanscom!” he shouts in his G.I. Joe Voice, and Ben groans, regretting his sacrifice already. “Truth or dare, buddy?”   
  
“Dare!” Ben crows to a thunderous applause from the circle of teens.  
  
“That’s it, Benjamin - like a bandaid,” Mike nods, clapping along.  
  
“Alright, alright, settle down,” Richie begs, motioning with his hands for them to quiet down before turning to Ben with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Benny the Kid, I dare you to serenade the youngest person in the circle.”  
  
“That’d be me,” Nick pipes up with a chuckle from his spot beside Kate, who is already shoving him practically into Ben’s lap.  
  
Ben accepts his fate with dignity, arms coiling around the younger boy as he bursts into the first song that pops into his head: Whitney Houston’s _I Will Always Love You._ His voice isn’t the greatest, but he can certainly carry a tune, and the fact that it’s Ben singing it has the whole group of them on the floor. Beverly has her chin resting on the heel of her hand and she’s watching Ben croon in Nick’s ear, the two of them swaying back and forth, Ben leading and Nick just letting it happen, his eyes bright and a soft flush to his cheeks that is a combination of the cool night air and being beneath so many pairs of eyes, conscious of Mike’s gaze especially.   
  
Mike is motionless in his seat, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene unfolding before him. Ben is making a huge show of singing to Nick, who’s hair is all askew as the older boy rocks him back and forth with each verse. Mike feels a tightness in his chest, and it isn’t an unfamiliar feeling - it’s been coming and going for weeks now, ever since Nick had come into their lives, his life. It’s an ache that he’s tried to ignore, and desperately so, telling himself that it’s nothing, that anybody would want to spend time with Nick, that anybody would watch as Ben sang to the blushing boy and think _I wish that was me._ _  
_  
Mike shakes himself free of his thoughts just as Ben starts in on the second chorus, and Richie snatches a tissue from Eddie’s fanny pack, waving it like a show of surrender.  
  
“Please, Benny, spare us - you’ve more than proven yourself,” Richie begs, sprawling out across Eddie’s lap so that he can wag the tissue beneath Ben’s nose. He swats his hand away and releases Nick, but not before digging his knuckles into his hair.  
  
“There,” Ben says as Nick laughs, blushing. “Now, you’re an honorary Loser…”  
  
“I don’t think any of us knew you were so suave, Ben,” Stanley teases, pinching his cheek.  
  
“Excuse you, I always knew Ben was a dreamboat…” Beverly insists with a fluid wink in the boy’s direction, and Ben’s cheeks flare scarlet at the compliment. “Who’s next?” she pushes on, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Nick?”   
  
“Yeah, okay…” Nick nods, ruffling his shaggy hair and pushing it back from where it had fallen in his face, eyes darting to meet Mike’s once before looking at his lap. “Truth…” he whispers.  
  
“Ooh, brave,” Richie comments, still grinning. “Alright, what is your biggest fear?”   
  
“Drowning,” Nick answers after a brief pause, and his voice sends a ripple through the whole circle like when you drop a pebble in a lake. “I mean - you all know I sail with my dad all the time...”  
  
“Yeah, buddy, you’re a regular fish out of water…” Stanley says an attempt to diffuse the tension and fill the sudden silence, and Nick does smile at that.  
  
“Yeah, well, one time when I was eight, I was out on the boat with my dad and I lost my footing. It was raining so it was real slick anyway, and I just toppled right over the edge and into the ocean. My dad’s scream was the last thing I heard before I was pulled underwater - it didn’t even sound human...” he whispers, unable to look up from his trembling hands. “I’m lucky my dad always kept me on a leash - literally, not metaphorically. I had a rope around my waist that kept me tethered to the boat, so he was able to hoist me back up… Got by with little more than a few scrapes and a cough that lasted two weeks, but I wouldn’t go back on the water for months afterwards. Too scared. I probably never would’ve gotten back on another boat at all if it wasn’t for my dad, but I still have nightmares sometimes about it…”  
  
“That’s g-good your dad got you b-back out there,” Bill smiles gently.  
  
“Yeah,” Nick nods. “I think he knew that the best way for me to live with that fear was to learn how to control it instead of letting it control me…”  
  
Each one of the Losers glance in Mike’s direction, and even though he is making it seem like he’s too busy tending to the bonfire to notice, he knows they’re looking at him because he has said something damn near identical to them all when asked why he always insists on stoking the flames they ignite whenever they use his backyard as a hangout; he feels better, he told them, knowing it’s in his own hands, that he can stifle it whenever he wants, so unlike the fire that had consumed his parents in its blazing trail. Mike looks up from the embers and locks eyes with Nick through the twisting smoke as it climbs up towards the stars and both of them feel a little more normal.  
  
Richie clears his throat and the spell is broken. They all look at him and he smiles softly, eyes full of mirth. “Who’s up next?” When nobody speaks, Eddie sits up a little straighter.  
  
“I’ll go,” he says clearly, and Beverly blows him a kiss that he catches and tucks into the breast pocket of his shirt.  
  
“Truth or dare, Eds?” Richie wonders, already knowing the answer.  
  
“Truth…” Eddie breathes, his voice sure, and Richie hums, tapping his finger to his chin, feigning being deep in thought. Eddie bumps his shoulder with his own. “Hey - be gentle…”  
  
“Always, sweets,” Richie promises, wrapping his arm around his boyfriend. “What’s something you’ve never told anyone?” he says into his hair before kissing the top of his head, and Eddie hums, resting his head on his shoulder.  
  
That question might be easy for most people, but Eddie genuinely cannot think of a single thing about himself that at least one of them doesn’t already know. Bill, Richie, and Beverly seem especially to know him inside and out, so he takes a few moments to rack his brain before responding.  
  
“When I was little, when my dad was still alive...” The group collectively stops breathing, all eyes trained on the small boy, and Richie tightens his grip on his shoulders instinctively, “he used to bring me to this old, dusty hole in the wall that sold comic books and records in Bangor. It was filthy, but it was his favorite place to be besides on the back of his motorcycle. I remember him buying me my first comic - _Spider-Man,_ of course,” Eddie smiles when he hears Bill chuckle fondly, and he knows he’s remembering the time in their childhood when Eddie wouldn’t leave the house without his _Spider-Man_ sweatshirt whose hood was made to look like the superhero’s mask. “I guess I never really thought about it, but he’s the reason I like comics so much… Anyway, that’s, like, one of three memories I have of my dad.”  
  
“That’s sweet, baby,” Richie coos, and Eddie smiles again. “All those ones you have in your room, they were his?”  
  
“Yeah,” Eddie nods excitedly, his eyes sparkling. “Some are mine that I’ve gotten over the years - presents and stuff. But most of them were his originally, yeah… I keep ‘em all pristine…”  
  
“We wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Kaspbrak,” Mike grins, ruffling the boy’s hair, and Eddie’s smile is infectious, spreading throughout the whole circle. “I think I’ll go next.”  
  
“Woohoo, Mikey!” Richie hollers before adopting his Frank-N-Furter Voice. “Truth or dare, dear?”  
  
“Dare,” Mike shrugs and Richie’s eyes gleam.  
  
“I dare you to do as many cartwheels in a row as you can…” Richie says, and Mike looks like he could hurl just from the thought.  
  
“C’mon, Rich - gimme somethin’ different,” Mike pleads, but Richie is relentless, shaking his head and waving the flask like a flag.  
  
“Refusal means a swig, Mikey,” Richie reminds playfully. “The choice is all yours.”  
  
Mike grimaces - he knows the choice he’s going to have to make is going to mortally embarrass himself in front of Nick, Kate and everybody else sitting around the bonfire, but Mike had decided long ago that if he was going to tackle his fears, he was going to do it sober. He will never leave a fire burning, leave such an outright threat to be forgotten in a haze of alcohol. No, he never drinks when he’s in charge of keeping the bonfire under control, and - ego be damned - he isn’t about to start that now.   
  
Mike stands up quickly from the log he’s sitting on and brushes off the jeans he’d changed into. Everyone cheers raucously as he steps out from beyond the circle. He takes a deep breath, refusing to look at the group as Eddie shines the flashlight he keeps in his backpack on him, and arches in the air, landing on his hands. He falls to the ground in a heap and everyone laughs, Kate’s high-pitched giggle cutting through the air like a bell.   
  
“Mike!” she cries, clapping delightedly. “You totally wiped out!”  
  
“Yeah, well…” Mike replies vaguely, picking off hay as he stands up.  
  
“Mikey’s ass ate grass!” Richie bellows, laughing so hard, he’s fallen into Eddie’s lap.  
  
“Alright, alright,” Nick laughs, throwing his arms out, protecting Mike from the group’s jeers. “Let’s give him a break. Baseball is about sliding and running more than it is cartwheeling.” Nick throws a quick wink Mike’s way, and Mike feels his stomach drop out of sight. He averts his eyes, but his mouth screws up in a smile anyway.   
  
“A valiant effort, Mikey,” Beverly insists sweetly, and Mike shoots her a grateful grin. “Now it’s my turn!” she chimes, looking towards Richie, awaiting her sentencing with a smirk. “Truth - do your worst, Tozier.”  
  
Richie’s smirk widens until it looks almost cartoony in the light from the flames between them. “Who, in your opinion, is the cutest member of our little rag-tag team? And Bill doesn’t count as an answer - we all already know he’s adorable.”   
  
“Guys!” Bill shrieks shrilly, and everybody laughs.  
  
“They’re not wrong, babe,” Stanley says, pinching his flushed cheek, and Bill bats his boyfriend’s hand away bashfully before hiding his face in the crook of Stanley’s throat.  
  
Everybody is so busy focusing on Bill’s protesting outburst that their eyes are momentarily off of Beverly, who has suddenly felt like she might faint. Her hands are fidgeting in her lap and she’s looking at the fire like she is honestly contemplating leaping into it. She won’t lie to herself - she’d found Kate attractive the moment she saw her back at Homecoming and the familiar fluttering that is the product of brewing feelings has not left her chest for weeks. It flares up wildly when the other girl is near, and Beverly has to constantly remind herself that Kate is unavailable, a task proving to be even more difficult now that Beverly knows Kate is queer, too. _Really made a queer kid like me feel safe._ _  
_  
Beverly holds her hand out wordlessly to Richie, a request for the flask, and Richie’s jaw drops. “Wait, Bevs, for real?” he whispers; in the years he has called Beverly Marsh his friend, he’s never known her to put her tail between her legs, to fold on a challenge, to not answer a question.  
  
She nods, unwavering, and when Richie hands Beverly her flask and she takes a generous drink from it, piercing eyes fixed firmly on the other girl, Kate feels her skin start to prickle under Beverly’s smolder. _Queer kid like me. Queer kid like me. Queer kid like me._ _  
_  
Richie makes eye contact with Beverly, concern on his face when he sees what looks like pain settled deep in her eyes, but she smiles at him warmly when she hands the flask back to him, and he breathes again, his own grin returning.  
  
“Next?” he chimes, holding the flask carefully by its neck and waving it back and forth like a ticking clock. “Stan the Man?” he prompts, turning towards his friend.   
  
Stanley sighs deeply. “Dare, I suppose.” Richie opens his mouth, but Ben cuts him off.   
  
“Hold on, how come Tozier is in charge of all the tasks?” he asks. “I say others should be able to come up with dares!”  
  
“No! I am the king!” Richie bellows. “This is treason!”  
  
“Homecoming is over, Richie,” Beverly coos gently. “I second the motion that others be able to come up with dares.”  
  
“I agree,” Bill nods and Richie gasps.  
  
 _“My own queen hath betrayed me,”_ Richie breathes, clutching his chest like he’d been shot. “Billie Denbrough, how could you?!”  
  
“Anyway,” Ben interrupts Richie’s show, turning back to Stanley. “I dare you to beg the person on your right not to leave you for the person on your left...” Stanley’s eyes widen.   
  
“Oh, no,” he groans, looking to his right and finding Richie there, his lips puckered, already climbing half-way into his lap while Bill laughs loudly from his left side.  
  
“Go on, Stanley,” Richie sighs, winding his arms around his friend, and Stanley briefly considers downing the whole flask in favor of this torture. “Convince me not to leave you for Bill - good luck, though, Billy Boy’s a perfect creature…”  
  
“Again, guys!” Bill protests.  
  
“You don’t wanna date Bill,” Stanley starts trepidatiously. “He’s short, kissing him would be a death sentence for your back, you beanpole — ”  
  
“Hey! I’m n-not that short,” Bill pouts. “You’re just a monster. Richie wouldn’t care,” he insists playfully.  
  
“I love you just the way you are, my queen!” Richie promises, and the whole group of them are in stitches, tears in their eyes as they laugh.  
  
“I think I just need to take this one,” Stanley sighs, reaching for the flask. “There’s nothing I can even think of that would be a con to dating Bill.”  
  
“Wow, fair,” Beverly chuckles, and she clicks her red plastic cup against the flask in Stanley’s hand, the two of them sharing a drink while Bill turns beet red at the sentiment. Beverly cranes her head and looks around Nick and Ben. “Kay, truth or dare?”  
  
“Dare,” Kate says, no hesitation in her voice, a fearless smile on her face.  
  
“Ooh, brave girl,” Beverly smirks, an eyebrow raised. Kate raises an eyebrow back, but says nothing. “I dare you to switch clothes with whoever is across the circle from you.”  
  
Kate turns to the fire and squints into it. “I can’t… I can’t see…”  
  
Richie stands up, heels making him tower over the fire. “Can you see me now, gorgeous? I knew you were small, but damn.”  
  
Everyone crows and cheers, clapping their hands and slapping Kate on the back. She throws her arms up in the air, standing up and shrugging off her cardigan sweater to reveal her knee-length floral dress. “Let’s do this, Tozier.”   
  
The group screams in excitement and Richie hooks an arm around her as they go around the back of the barn and switch clothing, backs turned to one another.   
  
“Shoes?” Richie asks, holding out his 5-inch stiletto heels with one finger once Kate has turned around. She shrugs and grabs them, toeing off her converse.   
  
“You think those big feet will fit into these, Rich?” He eyes them warily.  
  
“I’d rather not find out.”   
  
They walk back, Richie’s hand in Kate’s due to her heels digging into the soft earth, and Richie makes a trumpet noise as they approach the circle. “Introducing, Katherine The Brave!”  
  
Everyone whips around and their eyes bulge when they see them both. Kate’s dress is loose and flowing on Richie, stopping mid-thigh, and he twirls in a tight circle when they see him. His smile is luminous and wide, feeling free and glad to be able to be utterly and completely himself around a group of people, whoever he decides that is at the moment. Eddie eyes him and has to consciously stop himself from licking his lips when Richie makes eye contact with him.  
  
“Come sit with me, babe,” Eddie says softly to him, shaking himself from his reverie. He pats the space on the log beside him. “Let Kate have the limelight for a bit. You shine too bright, it’ll blind us all.” Richie’s smile grows.  
  
“Of course, little lover.” Richie plops down next to him, dress fanning out and he leans his head on Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie hooks his arm loosely around Richie’s neck as everyone whistles and hollers at Kate.   
  
The small girl is dressed in Richie’s Frank-N-Furter outfit, a red, sparkling corset and fishnets. She isn’t hiding behind the big, red boa, but more using it as a prop, sliding it back and forth across the back of her neck. She then grabs Eddie’s hand and kisses it.  
  
“Enchante, how nice,” she says in her best Frank-N-Furter voice. She looks to the rest of the group. “What charming underclothes you all have.” They all cheer as she saunters over to where she was sitting before. Eddie hooks his hand towards his mouth around Richie’s neck and lets out a loud, sharp whistle.  
  
“Damn, Kate, if we had known you when we were doling out our shadowcast, you would’ve beat Richie out in a heartbeat,” Stanley insists. Richie gasps, rounding on Stanley.  
  
“Hey,” Richie gasps. “I am the embodiment of Frank-N-Furter, you better show some respect to your elders, you uncultured swine.”   
  
“Say,” Kate chimes suddenly, cutting off Richie’s rant, “Tozier, you haven’t gone yet!” She points wildly in his direction. “Truth or dare?”  
  
Richie snorts. “Did you forget who you’re dealing with, Tiny Dancer? Dare, one hundred percent…”   
  
“I dare you...” she pauses a moment, tapping her finger to her chin three times before her eyes brighten and she grins, “to run through the cornfields!”  
  
Richie wiggles his bare toes a bit, stretching them out before putting down Kate’s converse and leaping to his feet lavishly. “Piece of cake,” he declares, and then he’s gone, baying at the moon like a wild dog as he barrels through the fields, the laughter of his friends like air to his lungs.   
  
Beverly is the next to take off, running after Richie into the night with her own fluffy red boa from the performance draped about her shoulders and held out behind her like a cape. Kate follows soon after her, dashing through the corn stalks that climb up high over her head with a gleeful squeal. Bill and Stanley link their fingers together and take off in unison, their laughter mixing in with the rest as Ben flicks his flashlight on and holds his other hand out to Eddie, who takes it gladly and lets his friend pull him into the fields after the rest of them, leaving Nick and Mike alone.  
  
Richie skids to a stop when he comes upon the shed near the edge of the farm where Stephen Hanlon keeps his extra supplies, trying for a moment to catch his breath. He slumps his back against the aged wooden door, nose to the sky as he inhales slowly, the cool October air whistling through his lungs, but his eyes fly open when he hears a twig snap off to his left. Eddie steps out through two stalks, his face luminous from both the makeup and the moon hanging overhead, and Richie is sure he’ll never catch his breath again.  
  
“Hey, hot stuff,” Eddie calls softly, joining him where he’s leaning against the shed. Richie smiles and holds his hands out to his boyfriend, and Eddie takes them, letting Richie pull him into his arms. It’s only when Richie is holding him that he realizes Eddie is shivering.  
  
“Are you cold, doll?” Richie asks, frowning, and he doesn’t even wait for Eddie to respond; he pushes Kate’s cardigan from his shoulders and throws it around his boyfriend like a shawl before pulling him closer and rubbing his hands up and down Eddie’s arms. “That better?” Eddie nods with a low hum and nuzzles his nose into Richie’s neck, leaving a butterfly kiss just below his jaw.  
  
“I like this, baby,” Eddie breathes against Richie’s throat as he thumbs at the strap of the dress his boyfriend is still wearing and Richie beams.   
  
“Yeah?” Eddie nods, his hair tickling Richie’s chin as he lifts his head to lock eyes with him, and Richie’s breath catches in his throat when he sees the look in his eyes. He realizes this is the first time they’ve been alone with only each other all night. “Eds...” Richie starts, only to trail off in a gasp when Eddie brings their lips together, his fingers knotting in the tight curls at the nape of Richie’s neck as he licks into his mouth.  
  
Richie moans, kissing him back desperately as he rakes his nails up along Eddie’s spine, and he smirks against his lips when he feels Eddie tremble, this time most certainly not from the cold. He pulls back a bit and Richie whines at the separation, which only makes Eddie’s devious smile widen.  
  
“Eds, c’mon - you’ve been teasing me all night,” he pouts, and Eddie’s eyes glint playfully, leaning back even more. Richie only lets him go so far, his arms tightening around his waist to keep him close. “Do you know how hard it’s been to not kiss you this whole time?”   
  
“Yeah?” Eddie asks, brow arched, and Richie slumps back against the shed, pulling Eddie with him until Eddie is practically lying against his chest.  
  
“Yeah,” Richie sighs against Eddie’s throat as he kisses up his jawline, leaving a trail of red in his wake, stopping just behind his ear. “Especially with you looking like this,” Richie’s voice is thick in his throat as he stares at his boyfriend, taking in the sight of his lipstick-stained mouth, now partially smudged after their kiss and some of his own darker lipstick having transferred onto it. “It was fucking torture…” he groans, kissing him again, hard.   
  
“Hmm,” Eddie sighs. “Bev’s gonna be sad you messed up her work,” he reminds when they break apart again.  
  
“Hell if I care,” Richie replies, resting his forehead against Eddie’s. “You’re too fucking pretty to not kiss.”  
  
Eddie blinks suddenly, his cool demeanor melting away as the compliment sits warmly in his chest. “Pretty?” he whispers shyly, and Richie nods.   
  
“Yeah, baby,” Richie promises, raising his hand to stroke his thumb along Eddie’s cheek and over his lower lip before kissing him again gently. “You’re -- so pretty,” he insists, and Eddie cannot breathe.   
  
_I love you,_ Eddie thinks, and then instantly he feels something inside of him jolt, almost like he’s been electrocuted. He looks up at Richie, at this sweet, loving, playful boy who holds him tight because he doesn’t ever worry about breaking him, and he knows that it’s true, that he does love him, but he can’t tell him. Not yet. _Too soon,_ a voice at the back of his mind whispers. _It’s too soon._ Eddie knows that to be true as well, that they’re still so new to each other as a couple even though when they’re together he feels as if they’ve already lived whole lifetimes by each other’s side. _I love you,_ Eddie thinks again as he finds Richie’s eyes on him, and when Richie smiles down at him, he knows he’ll have forever to tell him so, that there can’t be a single life in which he wouldn’t love Richie Tozier.   
  
He tucks himself into Richie’s arms and Richie cradles him to his chest, kissing the crown of his head. He hears Eddie sniffle and frowns suddenly. “Eddie, honey, what is it?”  
  
“Oh - nothing, nothing. You’re just…” he looks up from Richie’s chest. “You’re my favorite person in the whole world, you know that?” Richie smiles brightly.  
  
“You’re mine, too, Eds,” he promises quietly, kissing the tip of Eddie’s nose.  
  
Beverly passes by Richie and Eddie as a flash in the night and they both laugh, kissing again. She dips in between the cornstalks, evading whoever is chasing her. She can’t see who it is, but she sees a sparkle of white teeth in the moonlight when she turns around. Her laughter peals out of her, like she can’t help the noise as it escapes her body. Suddenly, she’s tackled to the earth below, a breath being pushed out of her as someone soft who clearly knows how not to hurt someone when going down to the ground falls on top of her. She has a flashback suddenly, quick visions of her father’s arms, his hands, his eyes, and she screams, eyes wide and arms going out in front of her. But then it’s just Kate catching her hands gently before they hit her. Sweet, soft Kate, looking down at her breathing hard with a concerned look in her eyes.  
  
Beverly suddenly realizes that Kate knows nothing about her father. She doesn’t know his name, doesn’t know what he did to her. For all Kate knows, Beverly’s always lived with her aunt. Beverly is scared by this thought, of course, scared that Kate might treat her the wrong way without knowing it, doesn’t know her specific set of triggers. But Beverly is far more liberated by this realization than scared because kind, gentle Katherine Thackery could never hurt her. It’s a similar thought she had to when she kissed Bill for the first time that cold, December evening.  
  
“Beverly, are you okay? It’s just me, it’s Kate,” she says, clutching onto Beverly’s hands. She unlaces one of their hands and touches Beverly’s tricep gently. It feels reverent, holy, important somehow. Beverly is breathing hard suddenly as well, but not due to the running she’d been doing or from the panic she’d just faced. Her body is thrumming with adrenaline and her eyes are wide as she stares up at Kate, who is still on top of her, body stuck still in fear. But Kate feels more a comforting weight now on top of Beverly than anything else. The realization that this is true is a shock to Beverly’s system more than anything else. “I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean to scare you.”  
  
Kate won’t hurt her, Beverly knows this, and if she does, she will make the precautions to never do so again.  
  
Beverly smiles and nods fiercely. “Yeah, Kay, I’m fine. I’m… I’m okay.” Beverly looks her over, taking in her soft skin, her freckles that are apparent even in the dim light from the moon, the curves of her and how she’s nothing like the man Beverly has tried desperately to destroy the memory of: not in body and not in mind. _Kay won’t hurt me,_ she tells herself, sounding unsure even in her own head. She isn’t sure anyone outside of her nuclear group could ever, ever be safe. _Kay won’t hurt me._ When she thinks it a second time, it rings so true, like a fact of the universe: Katherine Thackery won’t hurt Beverly Marsh. Beverly’s smile that had faltered returns in full force and she manages to flip them due to Kate’s stupor of confusion and fear that she’s scared Beverly, that she’s gone too far. Kate’s eyebrows raise as she lands in the dirt and she gives Beverly a tentative smile.  
  
Kate knows that it isn’t weird for her to be physical with her female friends under the guise for her of platonicness. Kate knows she can touch her friends with soft hands and a kiss on the cheek and they won’t think anything of it; not if they don’t know she’s gay. _Gay._ The word makes her body sing with anxiety and excitement as it does every time she thinks it. Kate is a lesbian. She called herself queer to the group earlier because that’s what she told Nick when she came out to him: she’s queer. And it’s true enough. Kate likes boys, sure. Well, she likes Nick at least. Delightful, darling, good Nick. Nick doesn’t know what he is to her, that he’s exactly what his mother was to his father in high school: a beard. But Kate is a cheerleader - she needed to hide, and Nick is a good man with an infamously homosexual father. Kate knew he’d be tolerant, saw how he was an outcast even to his own team. So she chose him to hide with. And so, for the last year, she has. She’s hidden.   
  
But here, with Beverly, with a beautiful girl who gave her a look that made her skin catch fire earlier that night, her body that Kate has so secretly coveted since the moment she saw her at the Homecoming Dance two months ago lit up by the moon, she realizes she isn’t hiding. She can’t hide. She is already out to Beverly; Beverly knows Kate likes girls. _Queer kid like me._ And still, she looks down at her, hands pressing Kate’s bare shoulders into the dirt with a force that she didn’t know Beverly was capable of but isn’t surprised about, and realizes that Beverly isn’t scared. She isn’t running like Kate knows her fellow team members would if they knew the truth. Kate doesn’t know if Beverly is queer like her; Kate is the last person to make assumptions about someone’s sexuality. But she saw the way she was with Bill in school when they were dating, and it seemed… it seemed real to Kate. It seemed real to someone who knows everything about what it means to be fake.  
  
But Kate doesn’t care. She has a female friend who casually flirts with her while knowing most of her truth, and Kate wishes she could scream in joy and not scare the tall, lanky girl on top of her. She settles for a mischievous grin and pulls her down to the soft earth with her.  
  
As Beverly goes down, laughing raucously and without a trace of nerves, they both have the feeling that nothing can hurt them. Not tonight, not in these cornfields with this group of people. It feels impossible to Kate that she ever once felt nervous around Beverly Marsh, around any of these wonderful people. Kate knows somewhere in the back of her mind that this is flirting, that she has a boyfriend, but she feels too good, too free to care. She’s never been able to flirt openly with a girl who knows about her identity before and have her flirt back. She won’t go further than what they’re doing. She won’t hurt Nick like that, even if she doesn’t love him the way she’s supposed to. But as they roll in the dirt, Kate careful not to rip Richie’s fishnet stockings and Beverly’s short hair a wild, glowing, haloed mess around her head, they both feel invincible anyway.   
  
The two boys left behind at the fire share a quiet look as the noise of their friends dies down the further they disappear into the fields.  
  
Nick is the first of the pair to speak. “You not in the mood for running?” he chuckles, nodding his head towards the new ruckus as it flares up amongst the group. (“Eds, where are you? Are you lost? Follow the sweet sound of my voice, lover!” “Oh, my God, Richie, I’m not even five feet away from you…”) Mike chuckles and Nick smiles at the sound, watching as the other boy tosses another log into the flames.  
  
“Nah,” Mike says with a shake of his head. “I’d much rather stay here - I promised my grandfather I’d keep the bonfire under control, and I can’t really do that from the fields, so…” he shrugs, yanking his jacket further around himself and burrowing his chin into it like a turtle does its shell.  
  
“Right,” Nick nods solemnly.  
  
“Don’t let me stop you, though,” Mike says quickly, gesturing towards the fields. “You can go on ahead if you want - I’ll be fine on my own…” Nick turns his head briefly towards where Mike is pointing, but he looks back at the other boy almost instantly.  
  
“I’d rather hang back if you don’t mind the company,” Nick says, flashing a shy grin.  
  
Mike clears his throat loudly, and when he speaks, his voice is an octave higher than usual. “No, no, I don’t mind the company at all,” he says, feeling a blush starting at the nape of his neck, and he is suddenly very grateful that it’s so dark out.  
  
Nick gets up from where he had been sitting on the ground and takes a seat directly beside the other boy, propping one of his elbows on his knees before taking a generous sip from the drink in his hand. He screws his face up and coughs. “Jesus, what the hell did Richie put in this? Is it fucking Demerol?”  
  
“Oh-ho, no, didn’t anybody tell you?” Mike sighs, trying hard not to laugh when Nick suddenly looks terrified, and he all but throws the cup towards the cornstalks. “Never take anything that boy gives you. Tozier and/or Marsh Cocktails are notoriously awful, man… They won’t kill you, but -- god, I can’t believe nobody warned you about ‘em…”  
  
“Ah,” Nick laughs nervously, running a hand through his shaggy hair, “new kid, remember?”  
  
“No way, man,” Mike shakes his head. “We don’t play that game here - there’s no newbie torture to be had. We didn’t do it to Ben and we sure as hell won’t do it to you or Kate. Not on my watch…”  
  
“My hero,” Nick winks and Mike’s already brewing blush darkens until he wonders if his cheeks might just as well melt right off of his face. They say nothing for a moment, Nick watching the fire and Mike watching Nick from the corner of his eye, wrestling with the overwhelming urge to reach over and take Nick’s hand where it’s resting between the two of them. Mike sits on his own hands under the guise of warming them up, not trusting himself at all but unwilling to overstep that boundary; he does not see the minute frown flicker across Nick’s face when Mike’s hands are out of sight. He puts his own hand back in his lap, shoulders slumped, but perks up almost immediately when Mike turns to face him, a question in his eyes.  
  
“Were you afraid?” Mike asks carefully, and Nick blinks at him, confused. “When you fell into the ocean, I mean - were you afraid?”  
  
“Oh…” Nick breathes, and then he nods slowly. “Yeah -- yeah, I was terrified. I mean, I had grown up spending so much time out at sea with my dad, the ocean was never scary to me until that day. I think that was the worst part - realizing something I’d spent my whole life loving was dangerous, that it could hurt me, that it was that unpredictable…”  
  
“Took a lot to get you back on a boat?” Mike whispers, and Nick nods again.  
  
“I threw up the first time my dad even took me near the ocean after that. I didn’t want a thing to do with it ever again. It took years. But he was so good about it - so understanding, that’s the best thing about my old man, I think,” Nick smiles at his hands, and it’s such a sweet, endearing smile that it makes Mike’s heart ache for his own father, “how incredible of a listener he is, that he wants to listen to help and not just to respond. He listened to everything I told him, every reservation I had about going out on the boat again, and he worked with me until I was ready for it - not one second sooner…”  
  
“I didn’t want to go back into my house after the fire,” Mike blurts out, and Nick snaps his head up to look at him, breathless. “Even after it was all fixed up, all brand new and stuff - couldn’t get me through that door again for nothing…” Mike sniffs and he blinks quickly, like he’s fighting off tears. “Gave my poor grandfather hell about it till he finally managed to get me inside… but I didn’t wanna go. Still don’t sometimes.”  
  
It was public knowledge, the fire that had occurred on the Hanlon estate, taking the lives of a young couple, leaving their only son an orphan who would be brought up by his grandfather, the two of them the only survivors. Nick remembers his father talking about it with his customers in their shop. He recalls very clearly how forlorn his father had been over the whole ordeal, how he himself had imagined briefly what it would be like to lose his own father, shutting the thought down quickly as it had nearly made him ill. But now, sitting beside that boy, that very same boy that Nick remembers his own father sending up prayers for every night before bed, this boy he now calls his friend, he feels that same sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach, and it only intensifies when he notices that the tears Mike had been keeping at bay have broken free of his lashes and are now plunging down his face. Nick isn’t quite sure what to do, so he reaches out and grabs Mike’s shoulder, squeezing gently, and Mike turns into him instinctively, tucking his head beneath the other boy’s chin. Nick curls his other arm around him, hugging him to his chest, and he trails his hand soothingly along Mike’s spine, feeling the few silent sobs that rattle through him until Mike slowly starts to relax.   
  
“That’s why I won’t leave the fire,” Mike says into Nick’s throat suddenly, his voice surprisingly steady. “Because I know -- I know what it’s capable of, and I can’t let it take anything else from me…” Nick nods wordlessly. “And it helps -- it helps me to have control over it. It makes it -- ”  
  
“Less scary,” Nick finishes, nodding again, and he rests his chin on the top of Mike’s head, still rubbing his back. “Yeah, I get it.” He turns to look at the fire as it burns beside him, and it’s almost as if he’s suddenly filled to the brim with it, with the intensity of it, and he wants to snuff it out, this thing that has reduced this beautiful, strong boy in his arms to tears. “Say,” Nick whispers gently, “I think we could probably put it out for the night, huh? What d’ya say, Hanlon? Let’s go find the rest of those losers, yeah?” Mike laughs wetly, pulling back to wipe at his tear-stained face, and both of them miss the contact instantly, but say nothing.  
  
“Yeah, I should probably round them all up before Richie starts trying to flag down imaginary U.F.O.’s again…” Mike sighs, getting to his feet to put the fire out.  
  
“Wait, he seriously does that?” Nick balks.  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Mike insists as he stifles the flames. The logs smoke briefly, the last of the embers fizzling out, and then Nick is getting to his feet, following Mike into the cornfields after their friends. “My grandfather threw a fucking fit last year because Richie tried to make his own crop-circles out in the pumpkin patches…” They can hear the rest of them shouting in the distance still as they chase each other through the maze.  
  
“Richie, no - I’m not helping you down from there this time!” Stanley cries, and they hear Richie scoff in response.  
  
“Oh, you’re no fun at all, Stanley!”  
  
“Eddie!” Beverly’s voice sounds next. “Please tell your boyfriend that he cannot play Scarecrow - he doesn’t seem to recall the fall of ‘89 when it took three fucking hours for Gramps to get him down…”  
  
“You can’t be a scarecrow, Tozier,” Ben pipes up, “Mikey’s grandpa wants to _scare_ the crows off, not make ‘em drop dead.”  
  
“Fuck you!”  
  
Mike is laughing to himself as he listens to their playful banter, but he is also very conscious of the way his and Nick’s shoulders keep bumping together as they get closer to the rest of them and the way their hands almost seem to meet each time, just barely touching and only for a second does Mike consider actually grabbing the other boy’s hand. They are on their feet now, so he doesn’t have sitting on his hands as a means to keep himself from doing something very, very stupid, but what Mike does have is the sound of Kate’s giggle peeling somewhere off to their left, and that stops him in his tracks every time. Kate is his friend, one of the first he had made as a child; Kate was one of the only people in town to ever make Mike feel like he belonged there, like there was a place for him beyond the confines of his grandfather’s plot of land. And somewhere, deep down, Mike knows that his reasoning for backing off is absurd, that he would never intentionally hurt anyone, friend to him or not, but the fact that Kate has had such a huge presence in his life makes Mike feel even worse about his budding feelings for Nick. _He’s Kate’s boyfriend, for Christ’s sake,_ he chastises himself over and over whenever he catches himself staring at the other boy for too long, and it definitely does not help him any when he catches Nick staring right back.  
  
Almost compulsively, Mike looks up, feeling Nick’s eyes on him, and they both stop walking. Nick takes a single step forward, towards Mike, and Mike can see perfectly the smudged lipstick mark still on his throat from when Richie had needed to kiss him during Rocky; it looks as if he’d tried and ultimately failed to remove it, the deep shade of red contrasting intensely with the white collar of his polo shirt. By the time Mike tears his gaze away from the blemish, Nick has moved even closer to him, bringing them nearly nose-to-nose, and Mike stops breathing altogether, his heart racing in his ribcage. A thousand thoughts flash through Mike’s mind in seconds: first, how much he wants this - god, it’s been downright painful at times to be around the other boy and not be able to act on his desire, to not know what Nick was thinking. Mike’s eyes flicker upward briefly and they land on Nick’s face, wondering wildly all the time, _Does he really want this, too? Is he sure?_ Nick has had his fair share of alcohol this evening while Mike is entirely sober, and something deep in his belly is twisting at what that could imply about Nick’s behavior, that Nick is just buzzed and still high on the rush of _Rocky_ that he’s itching for experimentation. Mike feels his chest tighten uncomfortably at the thought, and he decides that no matter how much he wants this, he will not be anybody’s phase.  
  
As if on cue, Kate squeals again, and the two boys leap apart at the noise, eyes wide as they plummet back down to Earth.  
  
“Mike...” Nick begins softly, making to move towards him again, but Mike goes back a step, and Nick freezes.  
  
“No,” Mike shakes his head sharply, and Nick’s heart splinters in his chest at the look of pain on the other boy’s face. “No, Nick, I won’t - we can’t - Kate will be so hurt — ”   
  
“Oh, Mike,” Nick breathes, his voice pleading, but Mike is still shaking his head, eyes trained purposefully on his toes. “Mike, I’m sorry,” Nick whispers, his voice cracking, and Mike nods at his feet, unable to look up, afraid to find Nick’s eyes full of tears. Instead, he starts walking again, heading towards where he can see Ben’s flashlight dancing in the stalks, and after composing himself enough to fool the rest of their friends, Nick follows behind him.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The Sunday morning following the bonfire, Nick rides his bike to Eddie’s house, and the older boy answers the door groggily, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes and wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants that appear to be way too long to be his own, more than likely belonging to Richie, who, clad in a pair of sweatpants and an AC/DC shirt, is not even half a step behind his boyfriend, calling out, “Jesus H Christ, Englehart, can’t you leave us alone for one fucking day?” and Nick does not have the time or the patience to worry about if he is joking or not.   
  
“Eddie, can I talk to you? It’s important…” Nick pleads, and Eddie’s brow furrows, taking in Nick’s bloodshot eyes and dark circles. He opens his mouth to respond, but Richie beats him to it.    
  
“Whoa, hotshot - I didn’t just crawl out of Eddie’s warm and cozy bed to be booted out of the conversation,” Richie insists, winding his arms around his boyfriend’s waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. “Anything you need to ask Eds can be asked in front of me, surely?” Nick looks at Eddie, desperation in his eyes, and Eddie nods so stiffly that Richie doesn’t even register it.    
  
“Baby, let me talk to Nick - I’ll come back to bed when we’re done,” Eddie promises, turning to kiss Richie’s cheek firmly, and Richie whines as he buries his head in Eddie’s shoulder, not wanting to let go of him. “Go. The faster you leave, the faster Nick and I can talk and then I’ll be there.”   
  
“Fine,” Richie relents, letting go at last and heading back up the steps to Eddie’s room. “But you owe me, sweets!” Eddie rolls his eyes fondly before turning back to Nick, and he frowns when he finds him looking to be on the verge of an absolute breakdown.   
  
“Nick, what’s going on?”   
  
“How did you know you were gay?” Nick blurts out, and Eddie’s eyes widen.   
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“How -- I mean, how did you know?” Nick prompts. “I’m sorry if that’s not an okay question to ask. Kate’s always telling me about trying not to be intrusive when I ask about things like this, and I was going to ask Bill, but your house was closer and I just thought -- I mean, I don’t even know if you’re gay or not… This is so fucking stupid, I’m always assuming things about people, and — ”   
  
“Whoa, whoa, whoa - breathe, kid,” Eddie insists, biting back a laugh when he realizes it is usually somebody else telling him to breathe and not the other way around. “You want to know how I knew I was gay?” Nick nods mutely. “I kissed Bev.”   
  
Nick balks. “I’m sorry -- you -- what? Have you all kissed each other?”   
  
Eddie racks his brain for a moment before chuckling. “More or less, yes. But that’s irrelevant -- ”   
  
“Is it?”   
  
“Yes,” Eddie assures. “I kissed Bev during a game of spin-the-bottle, after I had already kissed Richie. Twice.” Nick still looks as lost as when he had arrived on Eddie’s doorstep.   
  
“It -- it wasn’t Richie that made you realize…?”   
  
“It was -- ” Eddie starts, but then he feels himself get a little choked up at the memory, overwhelmed by how pivotal that night had truly been, for all of them, really. “It was realizing she wasn’t Richie. That nobody else is Richie, or could ever be Richie. I like the way other boys look, sure, but I like the way girls look sometimes, too, albeit in a different way. With Richie, it was just… like I was on fire all the time, you know?”    
  
Nick blinks. “Oh,” he breathes heavily, resting his open palm against the threshold of Eddie’s front door to steady himself when he feels like he might faint. He nods wordlessly to himself, eyes closed. “Yeah, that -- that makes a lot of sense…”    
  
“But I knew long before that…” Eddie says, looking away briefly before locking eyes with Nick once more. “I was just too afraid to admit it to even myself.”   
  
Eddie looks at his friend, at this terrified young boy, and he feels almost like he’s looking into a mirror, seeing a past version of himself. He feels torn: equal parts relief that he has found himself and pity that Nick is so lost.   
  
“Just…” Eddie starts, trying to find his words. He levels Nick with a look so serious Nick wasn’t sure Eddie could be capable of being until now. “Just be careful, Nick. Don’t let yourself or anybody else get hurt in your hunt for the truth. We all know how it feels to let something as scary as reality break us down… More than you know...” Eddie thinks about telling Nick the whole story - Valentine’s Day, last spring, all of it - but he realizes suddenly that he wants to keep it in the past. Moving forward is the only true way to move on. “Be careful. Alright?”   
  
“I’ll try, Eddie,” Nick whispers harshly, backing out of the doorway and stumbling down the steps of the front porch. Eddie smiles kindly and shuts the door, calling out to Richie that he’d better get the fuck out before his mom comes home from church. Nick can hear Richie’s unbidden laughter floating through the open window of Eddie’s bedroom on the second floor from the sidewalk, and Nick aches for a relationship that simple and that loving. He and Kate have never been that way, but he wants that with somebody else, as terrible as he tells himself that is. He’s supposed to love Kate. He’s supposed to feel like he’s on fire all the time when he’s with her. He doesn’t. He has occasionally, but never anything long-lasting. Not like with —   
  
He takes another look up at the Kaspbrak house and smiles when he hears Eddie laughing. Nick wants to catch on fire. He wants passion. He just doesn’t know how to get it.


	8. Winter, 1992 (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes coming out of the closet goes well. Sometimes it doesn’t. And sometimes, when disaster strikes, you need your friends to help put your broken pieces back together.

The discussion between Nick and Eddie had been nearly two months ago - two months since _Rocky,_ since whatever the fuck went down between him and Mike in the cornfields behind the latter’s home (or rather, _didn’t_ go down) and Nick still has not seen nor spoken a word to Mike since. Despite having had quite a bit to drink, Nick still has a crystal clear picture of the events of that night and he could quite frankly kick himself in the ass for getting so ahead of himself, for jumping the gun like he always did and for being stupid enough to think that Mike would even come near him while he is still dating Kate. Mike is too nice to pull such an inconsiderate, backhanded move on a friend, and Nick should have known better than to forget that. It wasn’t that Nick wanted to cheat on Kate - fuck, every time he looks at her now, he feels an insurmountable swelling of guilt build up in his chest until it nearly suffocates him - but he is less guilty about almost kissing another person than he is about _why_ he almost kissed another person.

Nick feels like on some level he has betrayed his girlfriend, like he’s done her a terrible wrong, and it is only when he spills all of this into Bill’s lap during the study hall that they share that he realizes just how much this has been weighing on him. The sophomore takes his usual seat beside Bill, looking like he hasn’t gotten more than a few hours of rest in days, and Bill cannot help but adorn a look of concern as he watches Nick nearly pass out on his folded arm.

“You o-kay-kay, man?” Bill asks carefully.

Nick jolts awake, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eyes before muttering, “Do I look okay?”

“You look like hell,” Bill replies, and both of them chuckle a bit before Nick grows very quiet, and Bill watches as the younger boy’s hands begin to quiver where they are curled around his water bottle. “Pre-ga-game jitters? Stan gets those and we don’t even pl-play real games…” Bill laughs, trying to make light of whatever is plaguing his friend, but Nick’s grimace only seems to deepen.

“Bill…” Nick says slowly. “How — I mean — did you like Stan while you were still dating Bev?” Bill tilts his head slightly, peering at the other boy curiously.

“I did, yeah,” Bill nods. “B-But I wasn’t conscious of it. Not for awhile…”  

“Did you feel bad about it?” Nick whispers, eyes closed, like he’s bracing for Bill’s response, like one foul move might shatter him. “Like — like you weren’t being fair to Bev?”

“I mean — at t-times, sure… but Beverly and I — we were g-good to be each other’s first relationship. It made sense. Still d-d-does.”

“Was it confusing when you realized you liked Stan? When you realized you wanted him more?” Nick asks and Bill hums.

“Shit, yeah. I didn’t know bisexuality was a th-thing until Bev came out to me last sp-spring,” Bill explains with a slight shake of his head; that spring feels like it was eons ago, like it was an entirely different life. “We were st-still dating when she told me, and suddenly there was a w-word for how I was feeling.”

Nick sucks in a  quick, unsteady breath at Bill’s answer when he recalls the first rehearsal at the Denbrough house; that was the day that Stanley, Bill, and Beverly had all come out to him, and it was also the first time that he had ever heard the word “bisexual,” had learned what it meant. He remembers Bill’s words that day: _“I’m bisexual, I g-g-guess. I like b-both,”_ and he suddenly feels an inexplicable warmth spread throughout his body, like how one feels when they’ve returned to their own bed after being away from home.

“I...” Nick whispers shakily, blinking away tears as he stares at his hands. “I think -- I -- maybe I’m -- I might be -- ” he can’t help but trip over his own words, but Bill reaches out to curl his hand around the younger boy’s shoulder in a gesture so chaste and kind that only he could be capable of it. “And I’m not afraid of -- of being bi,” Nick whispers, and hearing it out loud lifts a tremendous weight from his shoulders, “really, I’m not…” Bill nods at him kindly, still gripping his shoulder. “I just -- I don’t want to hurt Kate… I really do love her -- it’s just -- ”

“Not in th-that way,” Bill finishes, and Nick nods. “I know. I love Beverly, too --  those feelings aren’t m-m-mutually exclusive, kid, but it took me a while to realize I l-love her as a best friend and not a girlfriend… It d-doesn’t make you a bad person to be honest with yourself...”

“Did…” Nick looks downcast, like he can’t bear to look at Bill as he asks his final question. “Did you hurt Bev?” It comes out in a whisper, and Bill is barely sure he’s heard him right from all the noise in the classroom. He takes a moment and processes. Hurt Beverly? He’s not sure they’re capable of hurting one another; they don’t have the power to do that within them. But he and Beverly are not Nick and… Nick and Kate? Nick and whoever this mystery person is that Nick is possibly interested in instead? Bill and Beverly are a different breed, always were, and their relationship shouldn’t be a model for Nick’s breakup with or coming out to Kate. But Bill does have something he can use in his arsenal: he knows Kate.

“I think it’s less about hurting the other p-person when you come out to them, or break up with them, or b-b-both, and more about what you do afterwards.” The bell rings and Bill starts to gather his books. He doesn’t care that he got none of his algebra homework done; he got something more important done instead. “Take c-care of yourself, Nick,” Bill says kindly, patting him on the arm. Nick looks up, eyes dazed a bit, and nods.

“Yeah, Bill,” he says faintly. “You, too.”

 

* * *

 

When Nick finally finds time to work on his latest English assignment, he is exhausted. He’s just gotten done helping his father clean up the shop and managed to make it across town to the library with an hour to spare before they too close for the night. He passes Ben on his way in and they smile at one another, the older boy bumping his fist lightly against Nick’s shoulder as he flips the hood of his sweatshirt up against the chilly air waiting for him on his walk home.

Nick signs his name on the sheet at the front desk and lets the night-shift librarian scan his Derry Central student I.D. so he can get a login code for one of the computers. She hands him a little slip of paper and he thanks her kindly before heading over to the cluster of computers near the huge windows that looks out into the heart of town. He doesn’t see any cars driving by, only a light snowfall, the flakes melting as soon as they hit the ground despite speed at which they seem to be falling. He drops into one of the vacant computer chairs and turns sharply to crack his back, letting out a mixture of a yawn and a sigh as he punches in the login code and the computer sputters to life before him. He digs inside his backpack for his English binder and retrieves the packet filled with Shakespeare sonnets that Mr. Turner had handed out before Thanksgiving break, flipping to the only page that is dog-eared; the assignment given was to do an in-depth analysis of one of the sonnets, chosen at random by picking out of an old dunce cap the teacher keeps in the closet at the back of the classroom. Each student would need to write a three-page essay as well as give a speech to the class on their findings. Nick had been one of the first up to choose from the cap, and when he’d read _Sonnet 20_ scrawled on the folded up note-card in Turner’s squiggly handwriting, he had simply shrugged and tucked it into his jeans pocket, residing to deal with it after the holiday. Now, he has less than a week to do this on top of the mountain of work from his other classes that he’s accumulated since then, and he’s starting to feel like he’s drowning.

It certainly isn’t helping that he has no idea what to make of his situation with Mike, that he hasn’t been able to think about the bonfire for longer than a few minutes before feeling his stomach begin to twist and ache. He misses Mike. He wants to see him, to talk to him about what happened. _Almost happened,_ he corrects himself mentally, typing out the heading for his essay into the blank document he’s pulled up on the screen before him. He flips to the dog-eared page of his packet, finding Sonnet 20, and he leans back in his seat as he begins to read:

 _A woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted_  
_Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;_  
_A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted_  
_With shifting change as is false women’s fashion;_  
_An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,_  
_Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;_  
_A man in hue, all hues in his controlling,_  
_Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth._  
_And for a woman wert thou first created,_  
_Till nature as she wrought thee fell a-doting,_  
_And by addition me of thee defeated_  
_By adding one thing to my purpose nothing._  
_But since she pricked thee out for women's pleasure,  
_     _Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure_

Nick’s forehead suddenly feels clammy and he drops the packet onto the keyboard in front of him in favor of running one of his hands along the nape of his neck, swiping at the beads of sweat he could feel gathering there. He tries to convince himself they were brought on from how hard the library has the heat pumping through the vents overhead and _not_ from the sonnet itself, but as his eyes pour over the words again, he trails his finger beneath each line, following along as he holds his breath. _A woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted / Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion._ His heart thumps loudly in his chest. _A man in hue, all hues in his controlling / Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth._ Mike’s face flashes through his mind and his cheeks grow warm. Nick rubs at the corners of his eyes vigorously with shaking hands, casting his exhaustion away as he reads and rereads these words from so long ago that don’t seem that way anymore; instead, they feel timeless, and maybe that’s why this sonnet has withstood time, because Shakespeare managed to tap into something that people were feeling then, are feeling _now,_ will feel in days to come. His words pierce Nick like a knife, they carve their way into his ribs, but they do not sting. He lets out a quiet breath that sounds like a scream in the otherwise silent library, and he needs desperately to be home. If Nick can talk to anyone about all of this, about this confusion over how he’s been feeling about Mike, it’s his father.

 

Cal Englehart is in his kitchen making dinner when his son comes rushing inside, snowflakes caught on the shoulders of his varsity jacket and shining in his blonde curls. His cheeks are flushed and he’s panting like he’s run the entire way home from the library. When Cal looks up from the pot of sauce he’d been stirring and sees the distraught look in the boy’s eyes, he thinks he might have done exactly that.

“Were you running out there in that mess, bub?” Cal asks as Nick kicks off his boots and tucks them beside his father’s on the towel they keep by the sliding glass door that leads to their deck. “That’s no good for your lungs, you know that…” Nick nods mutely and wrings his hand, rocking back and forth on his heels and looking like he’s about to hurl all over their kitchen. “Hey, let it out, kiddo,” Cal says gently, setting the wooden spoon in his hand aside so that he can fold his arms over his chest and turn to face his son head-on. “I’m all ears.”

“Pop, is… Are there other things to - to be… I mean, besides gay, straight, or bisexual… because I --” his breath catches in his throat, and he isn’t exactly sure why this is so hard for him. He thinks if he has to be questioning his sexuality, having a father who’s gay himself is just about the best situation he could have found himself in; at least he won’t have to worry about being disowned or ridiculed at home in a way he knows is reality for a lot of teenagers who don’t fit into the societal norms pushed upon them. His father is looking at him with shining eyes, a small, understanding smile on his face, just waiting for his son to find the right words, believing wholeheartedly that he can, that he will. “Because I don’t think I’m any of those things. Or - I don’t _know_ what I am is probably a better way to say it…”

Cal pushes himself into a standing position and curls his hands around his son’s shoulders, looking purposefully into his eyes, his scared, confused eyes, and Nick feels a sense of calm in a way only his father has ever been able to bring to him. “There is nothing wrong with not being sure,” he insists, squeezing Nick’s arms. “You hear me? _Nothing..._ ” Nick nods silently, lip shaking, and Cal pulls him into a tight hug. “Here, why don’t you help me make dinner, hmm? Cut the garlic, alright?”

“Yeah, okay,” Nick croaks, and his father kisses the top of his head sweetly before guiding him towards the counter.

“Labels are…” Cal begins as he leans once more beside his son, watching him cut the ingredients up and drop them into the sauce carefully. “Well, they can be a good thing, sure... They can be helpful to some people in figuring out who they are, but that doesn’t mean that they’re going to be helpful for everyone, yeah?” Nick nods again, smiling down at his hands. He will never take for granted his father’s caution with words, the way he can make anything sound so simple. “When I was growing up, it took me a while to learn that labels weren’t always a bad thing, because the world loves to negatively label people like me.”

“Us,” Nick corrects in a whisper, and Cal beams, placing his hand on his shoulder. “People like us.”

“People like us,” Cal repeats. “Okay. So, you’re already comfortable with saying _that,_ if only to me… That’s good. Took me many years to be able to do that, son. But it was a different time when I was growing up, and I didn’t have the incredible friends that you do, friends who will understand how you feel, who will make the bad things bearable. I chose to keep my head down -- ”

“You had to do that, Pop,” Nick breathes. “You were keeping yourself safe. Don’t be ashamed of that.” Cal gives him a sad smile. “I mean it. And hey, you woulda never had me,” he teases lightly, and Cal chuckles.

“Oh, perish the thought,” he says, completely genuine. “C’mere,” he wraps his son in a hug that Nick quickly returns, eyes closing tightly as tears well up in them. “What I was getting at was, if you learn anything from me, son, it’s that you should not leave it up to anyone else to decide who you are. If you’re feeling unsure about your feelings, romantic, sexual, what have you - that’s fine. Be unsure for a little while. Don’t rush to pin a name to something before you’re even sure what it is, yeah?” Nick nods against his father’s chest. “But don’t fight it either? You’ll know what’s right. You’ll feel it. Trust me.”

“I’ve always trusted you,” Nick swears, and Cal hums, rubbing his back.

“And I will never stop being grateful for that,” he promises, and after a brief pause, he adds, “so do you trust me enough to share with your old man where this revelation has stemmed from? It’s okay if you don’t. You know that.” Nick chuckles.

“Yeah, I know, Pop. And, yeah. Yeah, I wanna talk to you. There isn’t a better person I could think of to help me make sense of this mess.” Cal whistles quietly.

“Mess, huh? That doesn’t sound so good… Think we should put dinner on hold?”

“Maybe… Or we could -- ”

“ -- order pizza?” they say in perfect unison, and then they’re laughing, the sort of laughter that explodes out of people who know they’re on the precipice of something, who know that a hill is rising in the distance, and it’s going to be a long time till they see the other side of it. Nick doesn’t know if he would feel as good about climbing over it if he didn’t have his father there at his side, willing to take that walk with him. He feels at ease for the first time in weeks, months even, and as Cal reaches for the telephone to place their usual order, Nick turns the stove off and sends up a silent thanks to whoever will listen to him for being gifted with a father who wants to do nothing but that.

 

* * *

 

Nick and Kate break up on November 12th, 1992. It goes like this:

Fear. Guilt. Anxiety. It’s been building for months for Nick, and even longer for Kate. Nick is only just now dealing with newfound feelings. Kate has been burying them for years. She is a professional at this point at the art of hiding, and she can notice this in others more easily than she is willing to admit.

She’s noticed Nick’s trepidation when they hang out. She knows what’s coming. She knows she’s going to lose her safety blanket.

So when Nick blurts out _“We need to talk,”_ in the middle of their study session in Nick’s bedroom one cold afternoon, she knows her time spent in hiding is up.

When Nick tells her that he likes Mike, though, that’s a betrayal, but for a different reason than anyone would think. Kate has been harboring feelings for Beverly, of course she has, but Kate is a spy sent to study the behaviors of humans. She never understood them, never acted like one or felt like one, so she’s played pretend for a long time. She dated the football player who’s sweet and never pushes her. She joined the cheerleading team because she was good at gymnastics as a kid (or, as she refers to it, _before she figured out what’s wrong with her)_ and cheerleaders are always well-liked. She joined National Honor Society because that’s what smart kids do. She followed the motions. She did everything right. She hid. She has been waiting until she’s out of Derry to be whoever she wants to be. Maybe she’ll go to Stanford, somewhere in California; she hears it’s very liberal out there. She hears this from her dad who says this with contempt. She stores every word he spits for a future far away from Derry, Maine where she can one day be herself. Not here. Here, she hides.

And now to find out that Nick’s been hiding, too? Well, it stings a bit.

She tells Nick as much in a breakdown she never thought she’d ever have; not yet. Not here. Not in _Derry._ She feels like the walls are listening when she spits out that she’s gay, like they’re only waiting to whisper it to everyone they can. Maybe Nick is, too. She doesn’t know. It’s not as if they ever really knew each other at all.

She tells him through tears that she likes someone, too, and Nick looks crestfallen, as if they’ve both been hurting each other by hiding. And for a moment, Kate is _angry._ Kate doesn’t remember the last time she allowed herself to get angry - she smothers that emotion out of fear that will turn her into someone she’s not. Katherine Thackeray doesn’t get angry. So when she explodes at Nick, cutting him off to tell him that he doesn’t know what it’s like to hide, that he can’t compare her struggle to his, Nick is so shocked that he scoots away from her. This is not the Katherine Thackeray he knows. That girl is composed, nervous, always smiling. This girl has fire in her eyes and venom in her words. It’s Nick’s turn to realize that they might have never really known each other at all.

The thing is, Kate doesn’t really _have_ friends. Nick is her best friend on earth, and Kate is his. She’s always had Mike, much longer than Nick has, but Nick is her _person._ He doesn’t know who it could be, who she could’ve found. But then again, Nick hasn’t been paying too much attention to her ever since Mike came into the picture. The guilt swells, overtakes him, and it crests. And then breaks.

Nick feels tears fall distantly. He isn’t paying attention to them; he’s paying attention to _Kate_ in a way that he hasn’t in far too long. _I’ve been a terrible boyfriend,_ he tells her, voice thick. _You deserved better._ But maybe the girl Nick knew is still in there, was always in there, because she hums discontentedly and presses close enough so their knees bump together.

_No, Nick. We’ve been bad to each other. I did the same thing your father did to your mother, using you to hide. We’re both to blame._

Nick has a thousand thoughts flitting through his head: he wants to ask her who she likes, but decides against it because she deserves her privacy. He wants to tell her how brave she is, but he’s afraid it will come off as insincere. He wants to let her know that he never wants to lose her, that she is so important to him in ways he can’t explain, has helped him become the man he is.

Instead, though, Kate speaks. She tells him about how she didn’t want to come out during high school, wanted to wait until college where she can more easily be free. _Derry is dangerous,_ she tells him. _Derry is cruel. Derry wouldn’t understand. I’m not brave like Richie. I honestly don’t know how anyone is brave like Richie._ Nick laughs and nods in agreement. _I realized it a long time ago, and I thought it would be smart to date a guy. You were the safest choice._

Nick smiles at her and wipes his own tears. Kate does the same. He hopes they both have someone to wipe their tears soon enough. _I’m honored to be thought of as safe enough._

And just like that, the mood shifts. The anger that Kate had been feeling dissipates completely and the guilt Nick has been harboring is gone. All that’s left is the love they’ve been feeling for years. All that’s left is pride for each other. All that’s left is to let go.

And they do. Kate tells Nick to go after Mike and Nick tells Kate to do the same, whoever that crush may be. The idea of doing so sets a fire inside her that tears her apart. She’s terrified of the idea, terrified of being known by anyone as a lesbian. Queer is safe. Queer is more palatable, she thinks. Queer is something that can be ignored by a man’s influence. But Kate has never wanted a man’s influence. She wants the softness of girls’ hips and their long eyelashes and the way it takes them fifteen minutes to pick out exactly which pieces of jewelry they’re going to wear that day. Kate wants to hold their hips in her hands and watch their eyelashes sweep across their cheekbones without feeling guilty and spin their rings around their fingers; put a ring on their finger herself one day.

Kate wants it all. And now she’s allowed to have it.

 

* * *

 

Leroy Hanlon is just about ready to tear his telephone right off the wall if it rings one more goddamn time, especially if he picks it up again only to hear nothing on the other end but a nervous intake of breath followed by the tell-tale sound of the phone hitting the receiver and the _click_ of an ended call. This has been happening on and off for the past week, and quite frankly, he’d cancel the damn thing, save himself a nice bit of cash if only he didn’t need it to set up plans with the people who bought produce and game from the farm. No, he won’t do away with the telephone completely, but as he hears it start to ring shrilly from its place in the kitchen, interrupting his Sunday football, he decides as he heads into the kitchen that if he answers it to silence yet again, he’s going to disconnect it for a few hours if only to bring himself some momentary peace.

The elderly man shuffles in past the dining room table as the phone continues to screech at him, muttering, “I’m comin’, I’m comin’... Goddamn thing…” as he reaches where it’s ringing off the hook, and he picks it up, placing it to his ear. “Hello?” he asks, and is utterly astonished when a voice actually comes through the other end.

“H-Hello, Mr. Hanlon -- ”

“Is this the Denbrough boy?” Leroy Hanlon asks when he hears the slight hiccup in the young man’s words, assuming it is Bill on the other end, and he’s met with a slight, nervous chuckle.

“No, sir - it’s Nick. Englehart. I was - I - is Mike home by any chance?” Nick wonders, and Leroy Hanlon puffs out a breath of air before responding.

“Sure is,” he nods to himself.

“Could - Could I speak to him, sir?”

 _“Michael!”_ Leroy shouts, poking his head out into the hall where the stairs lead up to the second story of his house.

“What is it, Gramps?” Mike asks hurriedly, barreling down the steps only to skid to a halt when he finds his grandfather in the kitchen with the telephone pressed to his ear.

“Nicholas Englehart wishes to speak to you,” Leroy Hanlon informs, and he does not miss the way his grandson’s face seems to pale a little. He presses the phone to his chest so that Nick cannot hear what he says to Mike then, “And do tell him that if he calls and hangs up without a single word again, I’ll be changing the number…”

“Alright, Gramps,” Mike responds, blushing a bit as he recalls just how often the phone has been ringing in that afternoon alone. Leroy Hanlon holds the telephone out to him then, and Mike takes it, praying his grandfather doesn’t notice how badly his hand is shaking, and he presses the phone to his ear as Leroy returns to the living-room to watch his game. “Hello?”

Nick lets out a quiet breath on the other end. “Mike… Hi… How are you?”

“I - fine…” Mike answers back almost robotically, twirling the cord around his hand to keep it from trembling, fearing he might actually drop the telephone. “Why --?”

“I miss you,” Nick rushes, and Mike’s heart nearly stops cold in his chest. He closes his eyes quickly, shaking his head. “Can you meet me? At my house?”

“Nick --” Mike sighs, closing his eyes, but Nick cuts him off before he can finish his thought.

“Mike, please - I have to tell you something. And I can’t tell you over the phone. I need to see you. Please…” His voice is desperate, pleading, and Mike is reminded of the last time somebody had sounded so desperate over the telephone; it had been when Eddie had called him last spring, begging for Mike to meet him and the rest of their friends at the river, calling them all back together again after months of being apart. Mike had been unable to tell Eddie no when he’d heard the plea in his small voice, the pain, and Nick is apparently no different, Mike soon realizes as he reaches for his snow boots that are resting on a towel just below the telephone, already pulling them on.

“Okay… I’ll come,” Mike says as he laces up his boots, and the sigh of relief he hears on the other end raises goosebumps on his arms.

“Okay… Okay…” Nick breathes. “I’ll see you soon?” He whispers this, almost like he doesn’t completely believe him.

“Yeah…” Mike promises. “Be right there.”

 

* * *

 

Mike stands on the Englehart’s porch for five minutes before raising his hand to knock on the door, and even when he does, every inch of his body, every fiber of his being is telling him to run. His eyes dart around the neighborhood, at the empty streets and sidewalks, like he’s looking for a way out. A car hasn’t passed by the entire time Mike has been standing outside, and as he turns his head up towards the sky and starts to see the beginnings of flurries cascading down to catch on the shoulders of his coat, he realizes why. He sniffles sharply when his nose starts to run a little from the cold, drawing his coat further around his body and making a mental note to ask his grandfather to fix the broken zipper when he gets back home just as the door opens and he finds himself face to face with Nick.

“Hey…” the younger boy whispers, staring at him wide-eyed, like he hadn’t completely believed Mike when he’d agreed over the phone to come over. Honestly, Mike hadn’t truly believed himself. But something drew him here, something hoisted him up by the collar of his shirt and dragged him back to stand before this boy, and Mike feels like everything, every emotion he’s tried to suppress over the past few months has come bubbling back to the surface now that he’s caught in Nick’s gaze again. _Fuck._

“Hi…” Mike breathes, and then he coughs and Nick flushes.

“Right - come in, please,” he insists, waving Mike past him, and the older boy steps inside after dusting the snowflakes off his shoulders. “How’s your grandfather?” Nick wonders as Mike shrugs his jacket off, and he takes that as a good sign, a sign that he is planning on staying, at least for a bit. His heartbeat upticks at the thought and he has to fight to keep from grinning.

“Same as always,” Mike answers, and he smiles timidly when Nick holds his hand out, offering to take his jacket and hang it up for him. He passes it over, their fingers brush, and Mike knows he couldn’t run if he tried. Not from Nick. Not again. But he also knows that he can’t hurt Kate, that he will never consciously hurt one of his friends.

“Good, that’s - that’s good…” Nick sputters nervously, and he starts to walk backwards until his shoulder bumps into the corner of the wall. His face burns and Mike looks down at his toes, fighting off the fond smile he can feel tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Do you wanna come sit?” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the living-room.

“Yeah, sure…” Mike nods, following after him and taking a seat on the sofa, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his knees. Nick sits beside him, folding his legs beneath him on the cushion and turning slightly to face the older boy as he twists his hands around in his lap. “You mentioned having to tell me something…” Mike prompts and Nick nods mutely, eyes fixed on his fingers where they’re braided together.

“I… well, I talked to my dad a few days ago about some… some stuff that I’d figured out. And he - he helped me figure it out a little bit more,” the younger boy explains, still nodding a bit, like he’s encouraging himself to keep going. His eyes flicker up in Mike’s direction, trying to gauge his reaction, but his expression is neutral, one of patience as he waits for Nick to get to the point. “And what I figured out is… I’m queer.” He lets his words hang in the silence between them for a moment before looking up again and finding Mike giving him a gentle smile, caution set deep in his warm eyes.

“That’s great,” he assures, and a weight Nick hadn’t realized was pressing down on his shoulders is lifted. He smiles back. “That’s really, really great, Nick… Thank you for trusting me with that…” Mike adds after a pause, and Nick’s heart pounds in his chest at that.

“Thank you for being someone I know I can trust,” Nick replies, and Mike smiles down at his hands bashfully. “I’ve missed you a lot, you know…” he admits quietly, sounding nothing short of heartbroken, and Mike has to fight the incredible urge he feels to move closer to him, to reach across the cushion between them and intertwine their fingers. “Have you missed me?”

“Yeah,” Mike croaks before he can think better about it. “Yeah, Nick, I have…” He hears Nick sigh, and when he looks up, he sees his eyes filled with unshed tears and so much hope, and Mike feels his stomach crash to his toes when he realizes what he has to do. “Nick, listen to me…” he pleads, and he wrestles with himself over whether holding the younger boy’s hand will only make what he says next worse, but he does. He reaches over and twists their fingers together because he’s nothing if not selfish. He _has_ to be selfish, Mike thinks, if he’s sitting here at all. He should’ve told Nick he couldn’t come. That was the right thing to do - to _not_ go behind Kate’s back and meet with her boyfriend to tell him --

“Mike,” Nick says softly, squeezing the other boy’s fingers and bumping their clasped hands against his kneecap. “Mike, I want this. I - I know what you’re going to say... that we can’t do this, but Mike, we _can._ Okay? We can do this --”

“No,” Mike shakes his head sternly, eyes closing so that he doesn’t have to see Nick’s face fall, knowing that just hearing his sharp intake of breath is enough to slice his heart in two. “No, Nick. We can’t do this.”

“You can’t tell me you don’t feel this way too,” Nick challenges, and he means to sound strong, sure, but his voice is wafer-thin, like a passing breeze. It slaps Mike in the face anyway, the truth of it all a blow he was never braced for. Nick is right - he _can’t_ say he doesn’t want to be with him too, but Mike has always known that wanting something doesn’t mean you’ll get it, or even that you should. He opens his mouth to respond, but Nick pushes on, “At the bonfire, we --”

“The bonfire where we almost kissed behind your girlfriend’s back? That bonfire?” Mike wonders harshly, and he feels Nick flinch. “I’m sorry,” he rushes in almost the same breath, and he sounds so sincere. Nick almost wishes he could hate him, but he knows that he doesn’t, that he can’t. “Nick, please believe that. I am _so_ sorry, but we can’t do this. _I_ _won’t_ do this to Kate, no matter how I feel. She’s one of my oldest friends, one of the only people in this town who’s ever shown me an ounce of kindness. Who treated me like a human being when the rest of the world was treating me like a problem.” His own voice wavers then, and he has to take a deep breath before continuing. “I haven’t figured out how to thank her for that yet, but I do know that ruining her relationship is the last thing I want to do…” Nick lets out a muffled whimper at that and he latches onto Mike’s hand like a lifeline, his entire body trembling as he sucks in a slow, calculated breath, trying hard to compose himself to say what has been at the forefront of his mind since Mike arrived.

“Kate and I broke up.” Mike’s neck snaps up, his eyes wide.

“You - you _what?_ ” Nick reaches up to drag his free hand along his cheek, clearing the tears there with a sniffle.

“We broke up,” he repeats. “I told her how I was feeling… I - I didn’t think it was fair to her to be keeping something like that from her. I’m not like that,” he insists, meeting Mike’s gaze purposefully, desperate to convey that that was never in his plan, that no matter how strongly he felt for Mike, he never would have acted on it without ending things with Kate first. “I don’t want to hurt her either, Mike. I care about her just as much as you do, okay?” Mike nods. “But I - I can’t lie to myself either. I couldn’t keep on dating her when I was feeling this way about someone else… about you. She’s okay, Mike,” Nick promises, and Mike closes his eyes again, tears rolling silently down his face, overcome with relief. “We talked. We’re good. We were always friends first, and we won’t lose that. _She_ told _me_ to be honest with you. I never could’ve gotten up enough nerve to call you if it weren’t for Kate…”

“Oh no?” Mike wonders. “Mr. Football Legacy can’t pick up a phone?”

“Not when it’s to drop my heart into the hands of the boy on the other end…” Nick says, and Mike’s own heart flips in his chest at that. He stays quiet for a moment as he collects his thoughts, and Nick just sits there with him. He trails his thumb across the callus on Mike’s thumb, waiting for the older boy to speak.

“I… I need time, Nick,” he finally breathes, and Nick’s whole body relaxes. _That’s not a no,_ he thinks, and he smiles sweetly at Mike, folding his other hand over both of theirs. “I just… I don’t want to rush into anything right now, and… I still wanna --”

“Check in with Kate,” Nick finishes, and Mike chuckles, nodding. “You’re a good friend, Mike.”

“S’all I ever wanted to be,” he swears. “Are… are you good with that? With moving slow?” Nick lets out a relieved laugh.

“Mike, as long as we’re _moving,_ I’m good with whatever pace you need,” he promises, and he raises their hands to press Mike’s palm to his cheek, smiling up at him. “I’m along for the ride, Hanlon…”

“I was always hoping you would be.”

 

* * *

 

Bill and Eddie are holed up in the latter’s living-room playing _Legend of Zelda_ when Eddie suddenly jabs the pause button with his thumb and sets his remote control aside, looking forlorn. Bill’s brow furrows, concern in his eyes.

“Everything ok-kay, Eds?” he wonders, bumping his knuckles against his friend’s shoulder, and Eddie lets out a sigh, eyes still downcast.

“Bill, would you be up for a drive to Bangor today?” the boy wonders, and Bill only grows more confused. “I… I, well, I’ve been meaning to visit, and I was wondering if you’d like to come with me?”

“It’s not that I w-w-wouldn’t, Eds, but can I ask wh-why you don’t want R-Richie to take you? Did Cherry Bomb finally expl-plode or something?” Bill chuckles, slumping back in his beanbag chair lazily, but Eddie is sitting rigid in his, back completely straight. When Bill is met with nothing but silence for just a touch too long, he truly begins to worry. “Eds? You sure you’re ok-kay?”

“Richie has to work late today,” Eddie whispers, and Bill has to strain to hear him, which makes the boy wonder if Eddie might fear that his mother is eavesdropping on their phone call. His stomach flips at the thought, at remembering that Eddie constantly feels like he’s under scrutinizing eyes, even in his own home.

Sonia had gone to lie down as she was feeling a bit under the weather and didn’t want to get Eddie sick, but sometimes even Bill feels like the woman can hear through walls, can hear their hushed tones from floors away.

“But even if he didn’t, I’d still rather you take me, Bill… My mother trusts you as a driver more than she trusts Richie, anyway, and I don’t want her asking me too many questions…”

Bill’s brow furrows curiously at that; he knows Eddie almost never tells Sonia Kaspbrak the full truth anymore, which he’s proud of - the boy deserves his privacy, but he has never heard him speak with so much clarity when it comes to lying to his mother. He knows that somewhere inside, it still grates on Eddie, the guilt, even though his friends all reassure him that his mother is not owed more than he is willing to give to her, _especially_ after all of the lies she’s told Eddie over the years about his own health.

He thinks about reminding him of this, but decides instead to say nothing as Eddie sighs, “I - I want to go to Vinyl Frontier...” Bill’s eyes widen at the name, recognizing it immediately. “I haven’t been there since my father passed away and I - I just want to see it again… Sometimes I’m afraid I made it all up… that’s why I need someone else to go with me, and I couldn’t think of a better person for that to be than you. I’m sorry if that’s too heavy, you can definitely say no --”

“ _Whoa_ , Eds,” Bill finally breathes, cutting his friend off gently. “Of c-course I’ll take a ride with you to f-find the shop... It would be an honor, pal...” Eddie lets out a long, weighted breath that Bill thinks he must have been holding onto for a while, maybe even longer than this conversation, maybe for years, and Bill smiles comfortingly at him. “Wh-What time do you want to l-leave?”

“Ten minutes ago?” Eddie laughs around a gasp, and Bill chuckles, the sound warm and inviting and familiar.

“Well,” Bill says as he gets to his feet to turn the television off, “what are we w-waiting for?”

Eddie looks only moderately shaken when he climbs into the passenger side of Bill’s Volvo and slams the door shut behind him. He lets his head fall back against the rest and breathes in and out slowly through his nose before turning to meet his friend’s gaze. Bill has been sitting in his running car for the last fifteen minutes, trying to warm it up while Eddie came up with a story good enough to satisfy Sonia Kaspbrak.  

“Hey,” he finally says once he’s relaxed. “Sorry that took so long. She was asking a lot of questions...” Bill nods, having expected exactly that, and he reaches over to squeeze Eddie’s shoulder comfortingly before backing out of the Kaspbrak driveway and heading towards the highway.

“Wh-What did you tell Mrs. K?” Bill asks lightly while Eddie fiddles with the radio until landing on the classic rock station. Bill smiles at the road ahead of him, wondering if Eddie knows just how much of Richie has begun to bleed into him.

“That you and I were going to get an early start on present shopping,” Eddie replies, and Bill hums.

“Not a _whole_ lie. Who kn-knows what treasures await us in the V-Vinyl Frontier,” he says, voice dropping mysteriously low, and Eddie chuckles, punching his arm lightly. “You kn-know how to get there, Eds?” he wonders, but just as he does, he notices Eddie digging into his backpack and pulling out a neatly folded map. “Sp-Spoke too soon...” he says fondly as Eddie flips it open. “Alright - where to, Kaspbrak?”

The ride to the shop after that is mostly quiet, just Eddie giving out directions when they reach the exit for Bangor. When they get there and find a parking spot in a free lot, Bill shuts the car off and allows Eddie a few moments to compose himself. He thinks about asking Eddie how he's feeling, but figures that he'll offer up more information when he's ready. Bill has never liked to push anybody, but none more so than Eddie.

Eventually, Eddie nods at the windshield and pushes the door open. Bill climbs out, too, and silently, they make their way to the record shop.

They split up once they get there, each of them nodding hello towards the owner where they see him behind the counter. Eddie mutters something about going to find the punk section, and so Bill wanders, gazing up at the old rock concert fliers that litter the walls in a sort of controlled chaos. He recognizes some of the more famous band names, but he’s sure that Richie would recognize even more, probably all of them. He finds himself in the miscellaneous section, and laughs when he finds something good.

“Hey, Eds... _Kaspbrak_ !” Bill calls from the opposite side of the mostly empty store, a record in his hands that’s making him smirk devilishly. “G-G-Get a load of this. I think Trashmouth would l-love this one...” he holds it up and Eddie snorts as he sees that it’s the soundtrack to the film _Die Hard_ , and he is just about to cross to where Bill is standing shuffling through another stack when the owner of the shop is suddenly standing in his way. He is an older man, nearing sixties with a massive grey beard that hangs all the way down to his belt. A pair of small hazel eyes sit far back in his red face, but they glint warmly at Eddie as he stares down at him, mouth hanging open, like he’s looking at a ghost.  
  
“Didja say _Kaspbrak_ ?” the man gasps, and Eddie nods slowly, feeling his heart suddenly begin to pound in his chest, sure everyone in the shop can hear it over the music pumping from the speakers over their heads. “But ya couldn’t be... You’re not _Shawn’s_ boy, are ya?” Hearing his father’s name spoken by someone else, by someone he doesn’t know sends a jolt through Eddie’s body that makes his fingers twitch as the old man looks him over, his eyes growing suspiciously wet. This man knew his father, this man knew Shawn Kaspbrak, and something about that is liberating to Eddie. He was _real._ He lived and loved and people loved him too. People miss him who aren’t Eddie. Sonia Kaspbrak’s incredible efforts to erase him from their house could not stop this man from remembering him. Eddie smiles. “Lord, it’s like those clocks o’er there spun back some twenty odd years...” he says, voice raspy, and Eddie is blinking back tears of his own. “I’m sorry, son, I’m strugglin’ to recall your name. You were such a little thing runnin’ around in here after your pop...”  
  
Eddie coughs, clearing his throat. “My name’s Ed -- ”

“Ed!” the shop-owner finishes, slapping his own forehead with a laugh. “O’course, dunno how I could’ve forgotten that… Can practically hear Shawn callin’ after ya... Ya were fast for a little guy, kept your old man movin’, that’s for damn sure…” He smiles kindly and extends his arm towards Eddie to shake his hand. “The name’s Jack, and goddamn if it isn’t a pleasure to see ya again.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Jack,” Eddie insists, feeling his hand being dwarfed in the older man’s grip. “You, uh… Did you know my father well?” the boy wonders just as Bill joins them where they’re standing in the middle of the aisle.

“Hey, Eds, I f-found this over there too - you w-w-wanna grab it for Rich? We c-can split it,” Bill suggests, holding out a _White Light/White Heat_ record, and Eddie takes it from him, laughing fondly when he thinks about the way Richie’s jaw will drop when he catches sight of this.

“Yeah, Rich’ll love this. Good call, Bill. Hey, sorry,” Eddie says suddenly, remembering the shop owner, “this is my best friend, Bill. Bill, this is Jack. He owns the shop here, and uh… he knew my dad,” Eddie explains as Bill and the old man shake hands, and Jack chuckles.

“Why, I think Shawn Kaspbrak spent more time in this here shop than he did at school,” he winks at Eddie in an almost grandfatherly way, and Eddie can’t help but grin back. “He was the one who suggested I should start sellin’ comics along with records! Used to come by all the time, ‘specially when I got in a new shipment; he’d help me sort through it all, and I’d give him first dibs in exchange… Some taste, your old man had…” Jack laughs fondly. “Course he loved Bowie and Freddie - I mean, who didn’t? But no one, not _one_ could stand up to The Boss in your old man’s eyes…”

“S-Sorry, The Boss?” Bill wonders timidly, wishing Richie were here to bounce off of, but Eddie and Jack simply share a knowing grin.

“Springsteen,” they say in unison, and then Jack lets out a low whistle.

“Hoo-ee, yer pop woulda turned for that man in a heartbeat!” He says it with a sweet glint in his eye, a non-malignant smile, and it makes Eddie feel warm, safe. “Yessir, but no one had eyes for yer ma like Shawn Kaspbrak. How she doin’?” Jack asks, but continues on without an answer without even a spare glance at Eddie. He’s grateful because he isn’t sure he would’ve been able to give this stranger an answer with the way his voice got caught in his throat at the mention of his mother. “Did you boys know he and the E Street band are tourin’ soon?” Eddie and Bill shake their heads. “They’re about to be in Boston! Shawn woulda went nuts for it, I know it… Can’t wait for it, myself… Yeah, your old man sure loved Springsteen, Ed… Couldn’t keep none of his records in here for long before Shawn snatched ‘em up… That and _Amazin’ Spider-Man_ comics once a certain little man was born,” he nods in Eddie’s direction. “Boy, if you coulda seen your pop’s face first time he stopped in here after he found out about you comin’ along... Looked like he won the goddamn lotto! He was so excited to be havin’ a baby, carried your sonogram picture around in his wallet like he’d struck gold.” He beckons them to follow him towards the counter and fetches a bag from under it, holding his hand out for the record.

“Thank you,” Eddie says as he gives it to him, and both boys reach into their pockets to retrieve their wallets, but Jack waves his hand at them.

“Oh, no, no, no. You keep your money, boys. Always wanted to give just one more record to Shawn Kaspbrak,” he says gruffly before clearing his throat. “And his son is the next best thing… You and your friends come back to chat with me any time, you hear, Ed?”

“Our fr-friend Richie would sure l-love that,” Bill promises, taking the bag from Jack. “He’s a b-big music buff…” Eddie smiles, missing his boyfriend and knowing he’ll definitely have to bring him back here one day soon.

“Yeah, Jack, we’ll absolutely be back...”

On the car ride home, Bill gets an idea.

“S-Say, Eds - what do you think ab-bout getting everyone one g-g-gift to share this year?” Eddie’s brow furrows.

“Secret Santa is officially dead, huh?” Eddie chuckles. “And it went so well last year,” he sighs dramatically and Bill snorts, shoving his shoulder, glad that they’ve all reached a point where they can make light of what happened between them all this time last year. “What’d you have in mind, Bill?”

“Well, J-Jack said that Springsteen’s on t-tour… that he’ll be in Boston s-soon…” Bill treads lightly, eyes darting in Eddie’s direction for a brief moment before landing back on the highway stretching far and wide in front of them. Eddie sighs.

“Yeah, I was thinking about that too, actually,” he admits. “I would love to do that… I really, really would, but… You know my mother, Bill. I don’t think there’s anything I could tell her that would let me travel up to Boston alone --”

“Not alone,” Bill reminds gently.

“Without an adult, then,” Eddie whispers. “We’d have to take a bus - I’ve grown fond of Cherry Bomb but there’s no way that bucket of bolts would make it to Boston even if my mother _did_ let me get into it. I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to put a stop to Richie driving me to school, but it’s right up the road and I know she’d rather me not walk in the cold…” Bill frowns listening to this. He’s always known how difficult Sonia Kaspbrak is, how overbearing she is with her only son, but hearing it spoken so plainly by Eddie is almost unnerving, like Bill is listening to the boy talk about his life like it’s someone else’s. “And she’d especially flip her lid at the thought of me seeing Springsteen at all.... I’m telling you, Bill. She won’t even put _pictures_ of my father up in our _house._ You think she’d let me go see his favorite singer?” Bill stews uncomfortably in the silence that follows, unsure of what to say and hating that his aptitude for advice all but diminishes whenever he finds he needs it most.

“O-Okay… Would it h-hurt so much to at least a-ask? If you th-think it will, I r-respect that. But she might s-surprise you, Eds… I can t-talk to my mom about it and s-s-see if her and Mrs. Uris couldn’t sw-sway your mom if it came d-down to it… I think she’d listen to other ad-dults…”

Eddie mulls that over for a moment and realizes Bill is right. Sonia Kaspbrak does respect Terri Denbrough and Robin Uris, and would probably be willing to hear them out. He feels something ignite in his chest, this tiny flicker of a feeling as he imagines standing in a venue and listening to the same musician that used to set his father’s heart ablaze back when it was still beating. Eddie decides in that instant that regardless of what his mother’s decision ends up being, he has to see Bruce Springsteen. Eddie always feels like he’s running, but for the first time, he feels like he’s running towards something, towards a father he can never know in life and so he must find ways to know him in death, through the things he loved during his life. Visiting the Vinyl Frontier was just the tip of the iceberg. Eddie wants more, and he isn’t going to let anyone get in the way of that, even if the only person who would is his own mother. Especially if it is her.

“Do you really think we can do this, Bill?” he whispers, because if Bill thinks it’s possible, then it must be.

“I r-really think we can, Eds…”

 

* * *

 

When Eddie and Bill tell the group about the upcoming concert at Sue’s a few days later after finally getting Mrs. Kaspbrak to acquiesce, the most surprising reaction is markedly Beverly’s. Bill is always paying attention to his friends - always - so the fact that something is off with her sticks out like a sore thumb to Bill. He notices at first, she’s just as excited as the rest of the group. Then, briefly, she gets a dreamy look in her eyes. And then, she looks ashen. She’s pulling in on herself, retreating inward as she always does when something is upsetting her. Bill tries to catch her eye, but she’s staring pointedly at her milkshake and not even paying attention to Richie’s crowing about how excited he is.

“Beverly?” Bill asks quietly, leaning over Stanley and putting his elbows on the table so that he can see her better from Stanley’s other side. Her eyes flick up towards his, acknowledging him, but she looks back to the mostly-full milkshake just as quickly and says nothing. Bill frowns. He leans back, wrapping his arm around the back of the booth, and places a gentle hand on the back of her neck. She doesn’t flinch or pull away like Bill had been worrying she might, which is a good sign, but she still seems rigid with something that Bill can’t place. It ties his stomach in knots, barely paying attention to the plan Eddie and he had devised where they’d all buy tickets for each other. Stanley offers to pay for Mike’s ticket first, and he smiles gratefully. They all know the farm, and consequently Mike, are low on cash during the winter due to the lack of crops they’re able to sell. Winter is always hard for Mike - it involves the death of more of their farm animals, both from exposure and needing their meat to stay afloat.

But Mike is just as observant as Bill is, and when he notices Beverly hiding behind her fringe beside him, trying to stay as still as possible, he quietly speaks to her.

“Beverly,” he says, and she looks up, eyes wide and terrified, like Mike was the last person she wants to speak to her, “may I buy your ticket?”

Beverly is quiet, unmoving, staring at Mike with something akin to fear. None of them have seen Beverly look that genuinely fearful in a long time - perhaps the last time was when she told them all about her father five months ago. It unnerves the whole group, who have all fallen into silence as well, and of course, the first one to break it is Richie.

Luckily, he doesn’t crack a joke at Beverly or Mike’s expenses, like he’s been known to when things get uncomfortable. Instead, he turns to Ben.

“Haystack, I can’t believe you like Springsteen. I didn’t think you had it in you to like tunes that don’t sound like they were made in a factory. Perhaps my impeccable music taste has rubbed off on you after all,” he smiles, wide and a bit forced. Beverly’s eyes flick over to him and she smiles gratefully despite the fact that he can’t see it.

“The only one you’re _rubbing off on_ is Eddie,” Ben hisses quietly.

“Hey!” Eddie cries indignantly. “Why drag me into this?”

“Also, I like other shit besides New Kids On the Block, despite popular belief,” Ben grumbles, ignoring Eddie and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh, we know that, Benny Buddy,” Richie says easily, grabbing Ben’s shoulder from where he’s on the other side of Eddie and shaking it lightly. He leaves his arm around Eddie’s shoulders and his hand resting on Ben’s. “I found the Backstreet Boys tape you forced on our dear, impressionable Eds. You clearly have a lot of variety in your bones.”

“Okay, Tozier, listen up,” Ben glares with an unmistakable smile on his face, leaning forward and pointing at Richie with his elbow on the table. Sufficiently distracted, Beverly’s soft voice is only noticed by Stanley, Bill and Mike.

“Mike, can I talk to you?”

Mike nods hurriedly, already attempting to shuffle out of the booth. “Of course, of course.” Bill and Stanley move out of the booth, letting Beverly and Mike out, and when they go outside with a quiet jingle of the bell on the door, Richie glances over at them and lets out a quiet but noticeable sigh of relief, relaxing into the booth and allowing Ben to playfully berate him.

When Beverly and Mike make it outside, there is a short, tense silence in which neither know what to say. Beverly breaks it with a sigh, looking up at Mike. The trepidation in Beverly’s gaze makes Mike’s heart ache.

“Mike, I… I have to tell you something,” Beverly says quietly, much more quietly than she usually ever is, breaking eye contact and wringing her hands nervously.

“Okay, Beverly. You can tell me anything - I hope you know that.” Beverly smiles up at him quickly, nodding, before looking away once again.

“I do know that… That’s kind of the only reason I’ve got you out here right now,” she chuckles awkwardly. “I, uh…” Beverly wishes she weren’t nervous. She wishes she could put that aside and be the brave son of a bitch she knows she is. But her friends’ feelings have always been more important to her than her own bravery, and right now, not knowing how Mike will respond to this news terrifies her. She feels like she’s blindly searching in the dark for something she doesn’t even know if she’ll be able to find. “I kind of wanted to see if Kate would like to go to the show.”

There’s a brief, stunned silence before Mike says, “Oh.” But then he smiles, and day breaks. Beverly smiles back shakily, unsure of what to do, but then Mike continues. “Of course, Beverly. You and Kate would be lucky to have each other.”

“I mean… that’s not exactly true…” she chuckles darkly. “Considering Kate is still head over heels for another guy.”

“Um…” Mike says nervously, scuffing his boots against the gravel. “That’s not exactly true.”

“It’s… It’s not?” Beverly breathes, wide eyes staring up at him with a mad glint of hope.

“No. She and Nick broke up a few weeks ago.”

“Did they…” she whispers, smiling, and it isn’t a question. She’s more trying to shuffle information around in her head. “Do you know why?”

Mike pauses. “I do…” he trails off warily. “But I don’t think it’s exactly my place to tell you.”

“Okay,” she nods, taking this easily. Beverly Marsh is nothing but religious about privacy. “But you think I should go for it? Ask her to come?”

“I think you could even go so far as asking her to come _with you,”_ Mike smiles, and Beverly’s heart soars.

It’s surprisingly difficult for Beverly to find Kate.

It takes her three days after her conversation with Mike at the diner of attempting to catch her at the butcher, the library, school, even the bakery in town where she knows Kate likes to sit and read. Beverly sees a HELP WANTED sign in the window of The Breadline and takes note of it, pulling a pen out from behind her ear and uncapping it with her teeth to write on her hand a reminder to herself to talk to Auntie about applying later that evening. But first, Kate.

The elusive Katherine Thackeray.

She ends up finding her in the last place she’d think to look: the park. Kate has always taken to exercising privately, as she’s told Beverly, not liking to see people’s eyes on her as she runs. Beverly absolutely gets it; the idea of people watching her in general always makes her skin crawl. She’s thought Kate was brave ever since she met her for going up in front of the whole school and having to smile for them when they almost never smile for her.

But Kate isn’t exercising. She’s merely swinging on the swings. The swings at the Bassey Park playground are particularly low to the ground, being made for children, but Kate seems to only have to sit back a little further on them and her feet don’t touch the ground. Beverly has no such luck when she slowly joins her on the swing beside her, feet dragging as she swings gently. Kate looks over and her eyes widen at the sight of Beverly, but says nothing as she anxiously swivels her head to face in front of her. Beverly’s starting to think that maybe Kate isn’t as elusive as Beverly once thought - perhaps she was purposefully avoiding her. The thought sinks heavy into Beverly’s stomach like stones hitting bottom. She wilts slightly, but Kate doesn’t notice.

“Hi, Kay,” Beverly says softly. The flicker of a smile comes across Kate’s face, perhaps at the nickname.

“Hi, Beverly.” There’s a long silence after that, one Beverly thinks would make Richie’s skin crawl, but Beverly has always been a fan of silence. It gives one a chance to collect their thoughts. Instead of blurting out the first thing that comes to her mind just to keep from sinking into the quiet, Beverly thinks. She wants to go about this the right way. She doesn’t want to scare Kate off, but she also doesn’t know how to do that. It seems Kate is feeling the same way when she speaks up nervously.

“Beverly… Can I tell you something?” Beverly nods.

“You can tell me anything. I hope you know that,” she says, echoing the sentiment that got her to be able to be honest with Mike. It works with Kate as well, and Beverly is more grateful for Mike than she’s ever been.

“It’s not… You might hate me,” Kate whispers miserably, and Beverly resolutely shakes her head.

“I highly, highly doubt that.” Kate snorts, and cocks her head, still staring at the ground. She looks angry, but not at anybody but herself.

“Bet I can get you to change your mind…” Beverly allows her a silence, because silences, as Beverly has always known, are precious and meant to be shared. “I’m not queer.”

“You’re… You’re not?” Beverly says quietly. The shoe drops. All the stones hit bottom. She had been wrong.

“No. I’m… I’m gay, Beverly. I’m a lesbian. I’m sorry.” Kate squeezes her eyes shut, unable to even see Beverly out of her periphery, but it only takes a moment before she hears Beverly’s feet drag harshly on the ground to help her stop, and Kate knows she’s going to run. Nick was a fluke, a trick, a lie. Everyone will hate her. The world will hate her. The world _should_ hate her. But then Beverly’s hand is on hers, gently coaxing it from where it’s got a death-grip around the chain-link handles of the swing and bringing her hand to swing between them instead.

“Kate…” Beverly says quietly, full of emotion. “Please look at me, Kay.” Kate shakes her head quickly, eyes still squeezed shut, anxiety flooding her body with uncomfortable warmth. “Okay, you don’t have to. But will you listen to me?” Kate can’t move except to shake in Beverly’s grasp. “I don’t hate you.” _You don’t?_ Kate wants to ask, but she can’t force her mouth open. She feels trapped. Turned to stone. Medusa from Beverly Marsh’s bright blue eyes that Kate drowned in so many months ago. “I could never hate you for that. That would be awfully hypocritical of me.”

“It would?” Kate asks, voice small and coming out of her almost by accident. She wishes she could grab the words back as soon as they’re out in the air and shove them back down her own throat.

“It would, considering I’m mostly gay myself,” Beverly says, and there’s a smile in her voice as she runs her thumb over Kate’s tension-white knuckles. The words hang in the air for a long time before they make their way to Kate. And then, just like that, the stones rise to the surface. She opens her eyes and peers over at Beverly. The small, fond smile on her face says more than Kate was ever willing for ask for.

“Mostly?”

“Yeah. I like both, but it’s never a 50/50 gambit,” she chuckles. “I’m bisexual.”

“Really?” Kate asks, a matching smile blooming on her own face.

“Really really.” Beverly squeezes her hand, and all of the stones inside both of them float to the top and stay there. “In fact, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“There is?” Kate breathes, turning fully to face Beverly, hands still clasped between them.

“Yeah, I, uh… Ha…” Beverly looks nervous suddenly, using her other hand to rub at the back of her neck, and Kate doesn’t feel so alone in the fluttery sense of newness. “I was wondering if you wanted to go to the Bruce Springsteen concert that me and the Losers are going to in December… You know… with me…”

Kate’s smile grows to the point where she can hardly see from the apples of her cheeks pushing up and straining against her eyes. “I’d love to, Beverly.”

“Really?” she asks, eyes full of hope. Kate dares to hope, too.

“Really really.”

 

* * *

 

The first time he hears it, he is certain that he is just dreaming. Eddie has grown accustomed to the occasional bump or scuffle of a tree branch against his window, so when a noise that sounds like scratching penetrates his sleep, the young man hardly flinches.

 _It’s just the wind_ , he tells himself, and then he simply readjusts his head on his pillow and squeezes his eyes shut once more, willing himself to fall back into the dream he had been in the middle of, and he does not stir again until a faint whisper falls upon his ear in the only voice that could send him shooting up in bed as he did then. When Eddie blinks a few times, casting his exhaustion away so that he can peer properly at the boy chuckling from the other side of his window, he finds himself speechless. Richie is perched out on the edge of his windowsill, his glasses resting lazily on the edge of his nose and with his signature cheeky grin stretching across his face.

“Lemme in, would ya, Eds? So inconvenient that it’s wintertime, your windows are usually wide open,” Richie calls in a voice that is much too loud for this time of night, and so Eddie shushes him quickly as he hurries to his feet to grab the towel they keep in Eddie’s room to mute the sounds coming from his room that carry underneath the door. He makes his way to the window aftwards, unhooking the latch so that Richie can climb into his bedroom. “Jeez, took ya long enough to wake up, huh?”

“And what was so important that you needed to wake me up in the middle of the night?” Eddie wonders, a little irritably. “It’s two in the morning, Richie - normal people are _asleep_ at two in the morning…” Eddie folds his arms across his chest and when he flips on the bedside lamp, Richie can see him roll his eyes.

“Well, then, aren’t you lucky I’m not normal?” Richie teases in a whisper as he grabs a hold of Eddie’s hair, knotting his fingers through it so that he can pull him closer to his chest and press their lips firmly together. Eddie’s anger melts away in an instant as he sinks into Richie’s waiting embrace, and he lets Richie wind his arm around his waist, drawing him even closer. And then he realizes that Eddie is currently standing in only his underwear.

“Uh -- ” Richie stutters, hands tightening their hold on Eddie’s skin. Eddie pulls back, brows knit in confusion.

“You okay, babe?” Richie stares at his chest and wills himself not to look any further down. He’s impressed that he manages to rip his eyes away from the wide expanse of skin in front of him.

“Your… shirt…”

“My -- Oh! Yeah, I don’t wear pajamas to bed usually. Can’t you tell how hot it is in here? My mom’s convinced I’m going to catch my death if the temperature isn’t above 105 degrees fahrenheit,” Eddie laughs casually while Richie has what he’s convinced is a pretty spectacularly well-hidden mental breakdown.

“Do you wanna…?” He feels like he’s going against his own hormones, but he wants Eddie to be comfortable more than he wants to see his boyfriend’s skin.

“I’ll throw on some shorts, hold on,” Eddie says, untangling himself from Richie’s embrace and rifling through a drawer. He pulls out some red shorts and tosses them on haphazardly. They’re a bit big on him, perhaps a new pair, so they sit low on his hips, but they’re still shorter than ever. Eddie loves to wear athletic shorts that look like they come straight from Richie’s very colorful childhood dreams, and Richie’s sure he’s wearing them now just to torture him. Eddie knows how much the little shorts he wears get to him and he smiles broadly, walking back up into Richie’s space.

“Better,” he says resolutely. Richie laughs briefly, hysterical and high-pitched.

“Maybe for you, sweets, but you’re killin’ me over here.”

Eddie smiles triumphantly, nose in the air a bit too high to not be seen as proudly. “So, why _are_ you here, Tozier?” Eddie kisses the corner of his mouth from where he’s lingering by Richie’s jaw. Richie turns and seals their lips together, sighing into it.

He breaks away to press their foreheads together softly. “I - well, I missed you today,” Richie admits as what looks suspiciously like a blush colors his neck.

Eddie cannot hide the pleased grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth, causing his dimples to pop out. “You _missed_ me? Richie, you saw me in school…”

“Yeah, well, just ‘cause I saw you for an hour at lunch doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to miss you…” Richie defends bashfully, his blush darkening. “We didn’t even have any classes together today! Blasphemy!” Eddie kisses the tip of his nose softly, then the corner of his mouth, then finally brushes his lips against Richie’s.

“You are so fucking gone…” he teases, chuckling when he pulls away and sees Richie lean forward to try to follow his lips as they separate.

“Yeah, well... don’t go lettin’ it get to your head, Eds,” Richie shoots back sharply, but his tone is loving and his dark eyes are warm as he looks down at the other boy and runs a gentle hand through the fine hairs at the nape of Eddie’s neck. For the first time since he’s let him into his bedroom, Eddie realizes that Richie has not come empty-handed.

“What’ve ya got there?” he wonders, pointing to the rucksack clutched in his boyfriend’s fist. He goes to reach for it, but Richie slyly ducks out of his reach, clutching the bag to his chest as if it were a swaddled baby.

“A present from Bev,” Richie informs, unable to keep the joy from seeping into each word that leaves his smiling lips. “The _real_ reason I came here - apart from missin’ you, of course…” he adds when Eddie furrows his brow. “The realest reason of all!” he shouts in an Olde English Voice, and Eddie laughs, shushing him so his mother doesn’t hear them at the end of the hall. Richie upends the rucksack, letting the contents tumble onto Eddie’s mattress, and Eddie’s eyes widen.

“Bev gave you all those?” he asks, taking in the sight of the records from an assortment of bands that now litter the top of his bed. “Where’d she find ‘em?”

“She says they were just sittin’ in the back of the Aladdin when she went to visit Stan and Bill at work - must've been used for some old shows back in the day. They were gonna just toss ‘em but she snatched ‘em for me. Our own personal sticky fingers,” Richie says, beaming as he takes a seat on the mattress and lifts one of the Bowie records delicately into his hands, staring at it like it is made of gold; for him, it is.

“She’s certainly given them to the right person…” The compliment flows so easily from Eddie’s lips and Richie flushes all the way down to his toes as he watches Eddie gaze at the records scattered in front of him. “You’ll appreciate them more than anyone… which _reminds me,_ ” He leans over the side of his bed to retrieve a bag near the foot of his nightstand and when he straightens back up, he’s smiling, “this is from me and Bill.”

“But Eddie baby, it’s not even _Christmas_ yet!” Richie gasps in a whisper, but his eyes are shining with a sort of childish excitement that makes Eddie’s heart swell in his chest. “My boy just loves to spoil me!” He holds his hands out, palms up and fingers wiggling, waiting for Eddie to place his gift there. Once he does, Richie tears into the bag like a madman, pulling out the _Velvet Underground_ record and letting out a quiet breath. “Oh, Eds, thank you! Where’d you snag this little gem, hmm?” Eddie shifts, almost uncomfortably, and Richie whips his head up. “Is it top secret? Will you have to kill me if you tell me? I think it might just be worth it…” Eddie gives him a small smile and dips his head bashfully.

“No, I just…” he begins timidly. “I asked Bill to drive me up to Bangor the other day… I, uh… I wanted to visit that old record shop my dad used to take me to… You remember I told you about that?” Richie nods quickly.

“Yeah, Vinyl Frontier, right?” Eddie nods as Richie chuckles. “Still fuckin’ love that name. Your old man had some taste in puns, Eds.” He leans a bit closer to peck Eddie’s cheek. “I love it so much. Thank you.”

“You’re not mad?” Eddie blurts out suddenly, and Richie blinks, dumbfounded.

“About what? That my boyfriend just couldn’t wait a few more weeks to shower me with gifts?” Richie jests, winding his arms around Eddie and trying to pull him into his lap, but Eddie is rigid, and so Richie’s grip slackens, letting him go. “Eds, what’s the matter?”

“I… I thought you’d be upset that I went with Bill and not you,” Eddie whispers, dark eyes trained on his hands where they’re twisting in his lap. “I mean, you do love music, and I could’ve just waited for you to get off of work. You’re my boyfriend, I should’ve went with you.” He is rambling now, and Richie wraps his hands carefully around Eddie’s when he sees them begin to shake.

“Eddie baby, you and I both know that’s silly,” Richie says gently. “Now, I would’ve loved to have gone with you, you know that, but I’m not sad that you asked Bill, okay? You and Bill are close, he’s been there for you in the realm of your father in ways that I probably don’t even know…” Eddie lets out a muffled whimper at that, lips pressed together as he tries to blink away his tears. “Sweetheart, I’m not mad. Look at me, Eddie,” he raises one of his hands to cup his boyfriend’s cheek, tilting his chin up slightly, and Eddie meets his gaze then, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. “I’m not mad, baby. I promise. I’m not. C’mere,” he hold his arms out and Eddie climbs quickly into his lap, tucking his head into Richie’s throat, and Richie trails his hand slowly along Eddie’s spine as he presses light kisses into his hair. “And hey, we got a whole lot of time to go there together, you know?” He feels Eddie nod and he hugs him closer. “Did you have fun? At the shop?”

“We weren’t there too long,” Eddie says, and Richie rests his cheek against the top of the other boy’s head as he traces shapes on his back. “I don’t know, ‘Chee… It felt… it felt strange to be there knowing how much that place meant to him. Like I was trying to grab onto something, but someone else was yanking it out of reach every time I got too close… And then there was Jack…”

“Sorry, I know we’ve added a few new vagabonds to our little squad, Eds, but I don’t seem to recall a _Jack…_ ” Richie feels Eddie’s breath tickle his throat as he chuckles, and he hums contently when Eddie kisses his pulse point chastely.

“Jack is the owner,” Eddie explains. “He — well, he knew my dad.” Richie perks up at that, leaning back to grin down at his boyfriend in his arms.

“Oh, no kidding! That’s awesome, cutie. Did the two of you get to talkin’ -- ?”

“Not really, I -- ” Eddie interjects, fidgeting a bit in Richie’s lap, but the other boy doesn’t seem to notice and presses on.

“I bet he had some great stories about your dad, huh? I’m sure you loved that -- ”

 _“Richie,”_ Eddie snaps, a bit shrilly, and Richie stops talking immediately when he sees the look in his boyfriend’s eyes. They look glassy, filled with unshed tears, and Richie is stumped. “I… I could barely string a sentence together, let alone _talk_ to the guy…” he explains, voice full of shame. “I never realized how hard that would be… How much it would hurt to hear someone actually _talk_ about my dad. My own fucking mother doesn’t even say his _name_ under this roof, and suddenly I was listening to a stranger tell me about how he used to carry my sonogram picture around in his wallet…”

“Oh,” Richie sighs, and he lets his forehead fall against Eddie’s. “I’m so sorry, honey.” He kisses the bridge of Eddie’s nose sweetly. “I didn’t realize…” Eddie shakes his head and wraps his arms around Richie’s shoulders, relaxing completely in his arms.

“S’okay,” he whispers. “I just… I want to know him, ‘Chee… It kills me that all I can have is other people’s stories and memories. Christ, I was so small when he died… the ones I _do_ have are so fuzzy. I want to know he was real. That’s why I want to go to this concert so bad. My father loved Springsteen, ‘Chee. He was his favorite singer, and… I don’t know. I guess I’m hoping seeing him will help me feel closer to him.” Richie cards his hand through Eddie’s hair lovingly and turns to kiss his temple, letting his lips rest there a moment as he rocks both of them back and forth gently.

“You know, I think I saw a Springsteen record hiding in here somewhere,” Richie whispers, pulling back slightly to dig through the pile of records from Beverly, searching for -- “Aha!” he cries and Eddie shushes him quickly, clamping his hand over Richie’s mouth. He presses a sweet kiss to Eddie’s palm before whispering, “Sorry… Wanna listen to it?” Richie asks, holding up _Born in the USA,_ and Eddie shakes his head, though he looks heartbroken to have to do it.

“I’m worried we’ll wake my mom…” he says, and Richie deflates a little before perking up again, and he shrugs.

“Probably should wait for the concert anyway,” he decides, and Eddie smiles at him, craning his neck a bit to kiss his forehead. “Hey, lover - you okay in there?” he asks as he taps his finger gently to the side of Eddie’s head, and Eddie nods, giggling. “And how ‘bout in here?” He rests his hand over Eddie’s heart and the other boy’s breath hitches in his throat, moved in a way he’s never experienced before.

“Yeah,” he promises in a whisper. “Yeah, I’m okay, Rich. Thanks to you.”

Richie grins. “S’my job, Spaghetti,” he swears, and Eddie hits him in the chest lightly.

“Don’t _call_ me that,” he admonishes, shoving him away halfheartedly.

“Oh, you love it and you know it - I’m onto your games, Kaspbrak,” Richie insists, and he curls his fingers around Eddie’s hip, fingers bunching in the fabric of his shorts, drawing him closer until Eddie is kneeling in front of Richie’s own crossed legs. Richie kisses him softly, his hands sliding up over Eddie’s chest so his fingers can strum his ribs as Eddie winds his arms around Richie’s shoulders. He shifts his weight so that he’s completely in Richie’s lap, and Richie’s hands move to Eddie’s back, his fingernails gently dragging along his spine. Richie smirks when he feels Eddie gasp against his lips.

“ _Richie…”_ Eddie whimpers in between kisses, feeling his eyes roll back when Richie breaks away to kiss his throat instead, pulling him the last few inches closer so he is straddling his lap, and Richie runs his hands up Eddie’s thighs slowly, relishing in how easily the other boy trembles at his touch. Richie nudges Eddie’s chin upward with his nose so that he has more access to the boy’s throat and Eddie moans when he feels Richie’s teeth graze his skin.

“ _Shhh…”_ Richie breathes, his grin spreading further across his face when Eddie squirms in his arms. “You’ll wake your mom with all that noise…” He turns so that he can suck on the area where his shoulder meets his throat.

“N-Not too high up, hon,” Eddie reminds him and Richie hums in response as he ghosts his tongue over a yellowing bruise on the boy’s collarbone, some of his previous handiwork; it’s beautiful, a clear mark in the exact shape of Richie’s mouth, but it will never be seen by anyone but him. Any marks he leaves on Eddie have to be easily concealed from his overbearing mother and the world at large, and while Richie cannot deny that it gets him a little hot knowing he can mark Eddie up as he pleases, it sometimes makes him ache as well knowing how much they need to hide.

“You know you're my whole world, right?” Richie suddenly breathes, and he presses his lips softly to the hollow behind the other boy’s ear.

“ _Richie_ …” Eddie gasps, a blush darkening his cheeks, and Richie presses their foreheads together before kissing the tip of Eddie’s nose.

“I mean it, doll - you _are_ ,” Richie promises, raising one of his hands to cradle the other boy’s cheek as Eddie gazes at him through his long lashes, still fighting to blink away his exhaustion.

“Mine, too,” he whispers.

“You’re your whole world? A little pompous there, ey, Eds?” Richie smirks.

“Fuck off,” Eddie laughs. They lay back on the bed together, tangled up in the sheets, and Eddie wishes he weren’t anxious. The thought of the upcoming concert has been a constant source of fear in his head since they all decided to go. He likes to pretend he was just being cautious when Bill refuted his many concerns, but in reality, Eddie is _nervous._ He’s never left home before - for fuck’s sake, he’s barely even left Derry - and he’s most certainly never taken a bus. Just the mere idea of public transportation has his heart racing.

“What’s wrong now, darling?” Richie sighs. Eddie opens his eyes to find that Richie’s got his own closed peacefully where he’s pressed into Eddie’s chest.

“How do you know something’s wrong?” Eddie whispers, marveling slightly at how in-tune they are with each other.

“I don’t need to see you with my eyes to know what’s goin’ on with you,” Richie smiles, opening his eyes and shrugging. “Plus, you’ve just let a lot of stuff out, babe - it’s normal for there to be a come down,” he says, and Eddie cannot believe how much he loves him. “You haven’t stopped fidgeting since we laid down. You still want some of my sweet, sweet kisses?” Richie rolls on top of Eddie fully, pinning him to the bed and pressing lightning fast kisses all over Eddie’s face.

“Stop it!” Eddie giggles quietly, using his hands to push him away gently. “That’s not it!”

“It’s _not?”_ Richie gasps in shock, looking too dramatic to be truly heartbroken. “Are you sick of me _already?”_

“Shut up,” Eddie snorts, pulling on Richie’s shoulders until he collapses on his chest. He cards his fingers through Richie’s hair slowly, trying to bring back the sense of peace that had fallen over the room before. When Richie is sufficiently calmed down, Eddie whispers, “Never.” It sounds more like a promise than anything else and Richie smiles against Eddie’s bare chest. He drops a chaste kiss there and then looks up at him.

“So what’s got your goat, then? Anything you’d like to share with the class?” Eddie laughs quietly.

“Yeah, but… it’s kinda stupid.”

“Probably,” Richie hums. “Most of your anxieties are pretty unwarranted.”

“Hey!” Eddie cries genuinely, slapping Richie’s back.

“Mm, but they’re all still valid,” Richie says, burrowing further into Eddie’s space, nosing his way into the hollow of his throat and holding on tightly. Eddie smiles at his clinginess despite the annoyance that’s still present. “You can tell me whatever and I’m not gonna judge you. You know that.”

Eddie’s smile widens and he wonders if it’s possible for him to stay mad at Richie for more than a moment or two. There’s something about Richie that makes him so easy to forgive. “I do know that.”

“So…?” Richie goads, poking Eddie’s stomach lightly. “What’s the dish?”

“There’s no dish,” Eddie giggles, pushing Richie’s hands away. They end up tangled together because Richie grabs them tightly and threads their fingers together, resting them on Eddie’s hip. “I’m just… nervous. To leave home.”

“Oh, where’re we goin’? Somewhere cool, I hope, like California or Iceland or something,” Richie sighs dreamily. Eddie looks at him dumbfoundedly.

“Boston. The concert. It’s in, like, a week. You dumbass.”

“Oooh. _That_ kind of going away.”

“Yes, Richie. What the fuck other kind of going away did you think I meant?” Eddie says, trying to hold back a laugh.

“Like… Leaving home. For good.” Eddie’s heart nearly stops.

“You want to do that? With me?” Eddie whispers, shocked.

“Of course, ya idiot. I’ve wanted to since we were li’l tikes. Runnin’ around in the grass and pretending to be lions. I’ve always hoped we’d get out together,” Richie shrugs nonchalantly, as if he didn’t just admit that he’s wanted to run away with Eddie since they met. “But that’s a ways off. The concert, however, is not.”

“Yeah…” Eddie breathes, shaking his head to clear it and trying to shake the images of he and Richie laid out in the summer sun, lounging on a beach in California. “The concert. I’ve just… I’ve barely ever even been out of Derry, you know? And I’ve never taken public transportation. My mom’s driven me to school every day for fear of germs and disease. Just the idea is… eugh.”

“It’s not that bad! I took the bus to go to New York with my grandma when I was, like, 11. It’s not that bad if you’ve got a buddy,” Richie shrugs, looking up at Eddie with a grin. “Will you be my bus buddy?”

“Bus buddy?” Eddie asks flatly with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah! We can sit together and make sure the other doesn’t go tumbling out the window or whatever.”

“Does that happen?!” Eddie asks, anxiety peaking. “Oh, God. How do I prepare to get thrown out the window of a _bus?_ They’re so high up!”

“Eddie,” Richie laughs. “I was joking, sweetheart. You’ll be fine on the bus. Plus, I’ll be there to protect you.” Richie puffs out his chest and puts a fist to his hip. “Super Richie.”

“Oh, yes, definitely,” Eddie says, hauling him closer. “My big strong man.”

“Got that right,” Richie giggles. They’re quiet for a while, and Eddie has just about fallen asleep once again, it being much easier with Richie there, drumming patterns on his hip with his breath hot against Eddie’s neck. It’s bliss.

“What did you learn in school today?”

Eddie chuckles sleepily, marveling at how easy it is for Richie to say the things that he does when they both know it means a lot more. Eddie doesn’t remember the last time anyone asked him about his day without looking for a way to manipulate him. His first instinct is to lie, but he knows that Richie is only asking to ask. There’s no ulterior motive behind his words - there rarely is with Richie.

“We learned about poetry in English,” Eddie says, and Richie rearranges their bodies so that his back is pressed against the headboard behind him, propping his left arm behind his head and holding his other out so that Eddie can curl up on his chest. He accepts the invitation, and he tucks his head beneath Richie’s chin, wrapping his arm around his waist while Richie twists his hand in Eddie’s hair.

“Read anything good?” Richie wonders as he plays with the boy’s loose curls. Eddie yawns and snuggles closer to his boyfriend, humming contently when he feels the occasional tug on a lock of his hair.

“Sure,” he says. “There were some good ones, yeah. Plath and Dickinson and Atwood… We’re doing a whole fuckin’ Edgar Allen Poe unit for the next couple of days, though. We read some of his shit today, just The Raven, and I think I like the female writers better than I do Poe or any of those classics, but don’t tell my misogynistic teacher that. God for-fucking-bid,” Eddie rambles sourly, rolling his eyes. The names mean little to Richie more than simply their fame as he has never been much of a literature buff - that's more Bill’s speed. Words don’t really fascinate Richie so much as terrify him; words get him into too much trouble. But he could listen to Eddie talk about writing for days. Eddie is one of those people who genuinely enjoys school, and Richie has always envied that. “We read a few from each poet, and then we were given a journal that Miss Porter wants us to use to write our own poetry…”

Richie has never met another boy so passionate about his education before, and he thinks it’s sweet the way Eddie’s eyes light up when he talks about reading. He always got the most excited over that, which doesn't shock Richie considering there couldn't be any more comic books littering his bedroom. Richie may be naturally intelligent, but it’s Eddie out of all of them who tries the hardest for the grades he gets. Richie feels almost guilty for a moment that he doesn’t have to try for his grades when Eddie works as hard as he can and still doesn’t get the marks that he and Beverly get. But Eddie has never seemed jealous over that; in fact, if anything, Eddie is proud of his friends for their grades in school. He gets frustrated with himself sometimes, that he tries hard and still doesn’t seem to flourish, but never with Beverly or Richie.

“Did you write anything yet?” Richie inquires, and he feels Eddie stiffen in his arms.

“I -- well -- not _really_... Just -- just a little thing...”

“About?” Richie wonders, his brow furrowing when he sees how nervous Eddie looks. The boy is looking anywhere but at Richie, and his hand is trembling where it rests on Richie’s chest.

“Oh -- just... just stuff -- ”

“Eddie.”

“Hmm?” Eddie asks innocently, but when Richie stares at him pointedly, Eddie exhales loudly and buries his face in his boyfriend’s chest before mumbling something unintelligible into the fabric of his shirt.

“What was that?”

_“You.”_

_“_ Me -- ?” Richie begins, but Eddie cuts him off sharply.

“I wrote about _you_ ,” he explains, blushing deeply. Richie does not even bother to conceal the cheeky grin that has stretched across his face at Eddie’s words. _“Don't look at me like that!”_

 _“_ Like what?” Richie chuckles, and Eddie hides his face in his hands bashfully.

“You’re laughing!” he accuses, his voice muffled.

“I am not! Not at you! Oh, c’mon - it’s _cute,_ Eds,” Richie insists, running his hand along the other boy’s spine.

“It is _not_ cute! It's embarrassing…” Eddie whispers in a mortified voice.

“Nah, it's not,” Richie assures, tilting the other boy’s chin upward to capture his lips in a kiss. Eddie sighs, practically crumbling into his arms. “You’re just sweet on me…” he teases when they break apart.

Eddie shoves him. “You're not that great.”

“Oof, that hurt,” Richie mimes having been shot, his hand flying to his heart. “How ‘bout this - how about I write _you_ a poem?”

“What, right now?” Eddie snorts.

“Yeah, how hard could it be?” Richie challenges. “All’s I gotta do is rhyme, right?”

“Well, it doesn't _have_ to rhyme,” Eddie rolls his eyes lovingly. There’s a short pause as Richie thinks, idly scissoring the hair’s at the nape of Eddie’s neck.

“Alright, I got it,” Richie says decisively with a nod.

“Wh-What? You thought of something that fast?”

“Mhm,” Richie replies wrapping his arms around the boy’s waist as he presses his lips firmly to his cheek. “You wanna hear it?”

“Uh -- s-sure…” Eddie stutters, his eyelids fluttering shut when he feels Richie’s mouth on his throat.

“Of all the lives I could’ve lived,” Richie says, giving a chaste kiss to the underside of Eddie’s jaw before pulling back, “of all the people I could’ve been…” He trails off, not as if he doesn’t know what he wants to say, but to simply just drink in the moment. The only light in the room is a desk lamp Eddie turned on when he heard Richie at the window. Eddie is soft and pliant against him, eyes still closed, entirely trusting, and they both are safe from harm. Richie feels endless. “I got to be me so I was allowed to meet you.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Eddie says softly, full of emotion. He opens his eyes and they’re shining, beautiful and dangerous and limitless, like the open sea. He squeezes them shut again and throws his arms around Richie’s neck. They tumble backwards onto the floor and Richie laughs after breaking their fall, quieter than he would’ve if he weren’t being careful not to wake Eddie’s mother, who, as Eddie told him once, sleeps like the dead due to the sleeping medication she takes. “You’re my best friend, Richie Tozier,” Eddie says, and Richie honestly feels as if he could save the world if he always has Eddie by his side, reminding him of who he is.

Richie smiles warmly at the ceiling, his eyes drifting shut in peaceful joy. “Same here, sunshine.”

 

* * *

 

It’s 9 A.M. and the Losers and Kate are already on the bus. Richie, surprisingly, is bouncing with excitement despite the heaviness of his eyes.

“Guys, we’re going to see _him,”_ he whispers conspiratorially, leaning into the aisle to look at the rest of the group once the bus starts moving. “The Boss.”

“We know, Richie,” Beverly says flatly from the seat beside him that she’s sharing with Kate who is already snoozing against the glass. “We bought the tickets weeks ago. You have talked about nothing but this concert since Eddie brought it up at the diner _five weeks ago_.”

“And who could blame me!” Richie cries, throwing his arms out and slapping Eddie in the face accidentally. “Oops,” he whispers, wincing at Eddie’s glare. “Sorry, sweet thing.”

“Today’s count of Richie Tozier Inducing Casualties so far is two and we haven’t even left Derry,” Ben smiles, rolling his eyes from behind Beverly and Kate.

“Two?!” Richie cries.

“Did you forget you nearly b-br-brained yourself running up the steps of the bus less than f-five minutes ago, Rich?” Bill chuckles.

“How could I forget?” Richie swoons dramatically, tipping his head on Eddie’s shoulder. “My big, brave Spaghetti in shining armor saved me.”

“Literally all I did was keep you from falling backwards,” Eddie sighs.

“And where would I be without that assistance! Dead, I presume!”

“Shut up, no you wouldn’t,” Eddie grumbles. Richie picks his head up and pecks Eddie’s cheek quickly, knowing that even though they’re surrounded by friends on all sides, there are still strangers on the bus that could potentially see them.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t,” Richie smiles gently. Eddie smiles back, but their sweet moment is cut short by Stanley.

“If you don’t stop screaming, I’m going to wring your fucking neck, Tozier,” Stanley says stonily from beside Bill directly behind them, eyes still closed and leaning on the window just as Kate is. “Eddie forced us to get up at the crack of dawn to make this bus despite the fact we’re still going to get into Boston with four hours to spare. I am going to sleep until we get our connecting train in Portland and you’re going to let me, or so help me God — ”

“Okay, Stanley! Jeez!” Richie hisses, slumping back in his seat and crossing his arms prissily. “And Eddie was right, you know. You would’ve been tearing out your frizz if we were any less than two hours early.”

“Getting up at 6:30 A.M. on a fucking Saturday is still unholy, Richie. Literally. This is the Shabbat. I still don’t know how my mom convinced my dad to let me go today…” Stanley says, voice growing quieter as he begins speaking about his religion. Bill takes Stanley’s hand and squeezes, and despite the fact that his eyes are still closed, Stanley smiles slightly.

“I know what you mean, Stanley,” Kate responds without lifting her head from the glass. “If my mom knew I was going out today, she’d have my head.”

“Oh, yeah? You’re Jewish, too, Kate?” Stanley asks with a smile.

“Yeah. I know your dad. We went to your Temple a couple times for high holidays and stuff, since my dad is Jewish, too. Although, he’s more _casually_  Jewish than anything. She gave me this weekend off, but she wasn’t too happy about me not using the day of rest to _rest._  But yeah, your dad - he’s a real strict guy. Makes my mom even stricter about our religion,” she laughs quietly. “I’d never have been able to go with you guys if it were my mom’s weekend.”

“Your mom’s…” Stanley trails off.

“Oh, my ‘rents are divorced. Got divorced when I was, like, 8 or 9. ‘S never really been a big deal to me, though my mom pitched a fit about it for years, worrying she’s going against God,” she shrugs. Stanley hums, but doesn’t respond, making a note to himself to ask her later how her Temple reacted to knowing her parents went against their religion and got divorced.

“Well, _I_ don’t know how we even got tickets,” Mike marvels from beside Ben. “We bought them, like, a month out. How were they not sold out?”

“There’s two dates in Boston, yesterday and today,” Eddie explains. “Bill called the box office and managed to score us the tickets after our conversation at the diner for the second show.”

“Even mine?” Kate asks quietly. Only Beverly hears her, and she looks over at her and smiles warmly.

“Yeah. You hadn’t said yes yet, but I had hope,” Beverly shrugs. Kate rolls her head against the window, opens her eyes and smiles back at Beverly.

“Was always gonna say yes,” she says in a voice that’s nearly a whisper. Beverly’s eyes go soft as she reels Kate in by the shoulders and allows her to pillow her head on Beverly’s chest.

“There. Much comfier, yeah?” Beverly prompts gently. Kate nods with a smile, eyes closing.

“Much.”

The ride to Portland is mostly quiet after that. Richie points out every billboard to Bill. (“See, Bill? _Bill. Board._ Get it?”) Stanley threatens castration after the third time, and Richie whips back around in his seat, spine ramrod straight. Eddie giggles and pulls out his Walkman, offering to share it with Richie as a distraction. Richie agrees gratefully and they listen to _Born To Run,_ humming along quietly so Stanley doesn’t mutilate them as promised. Richie does a pretty impressive (and mercifully quiet) lip-sync to _Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out_ that makes Eddie giggle quietly into his palm. The album is just about finished by the time they pull up to the bus station in Portland, and Eddie rips the headphones off their ears when he hears the driver announce that they’re pulling in.

“Okay, everyone, grab your bags,” Eddie orders, standing up and handing Richie his from below their feet and slipping the straps of his own over his shoulders. “We’ve got exactly 33 minutes before the bus to Boston leaves and it’s approximately a 14 minute walk, probably longer if we get lost.” He looks around at everyone groggily standing up with sharp eyes. “ _Don’t_ get lost.”

“We _won’t_ get lost, Eddie,” Beverly laughs, undercutting the severity of her mocking tone.

“Yeah! We’ve got our little navigator!” Richie proclaims, throwing his arm around Eddie’s shoulder as they come to a bumpy stop.

“I’m not little, fuck you!” Eddie shouts, shrugging off Richie’s shoulders and looking determinedly at the front of the bus, grasping his bookbag’s straps. “Okay. Ready, crew?”

“Ready, captain,” Kate giggles. Eddie smiles but doesn’t make eye contact, too focused on shoving Richie into the aisle so they can make their way off the bus.

“C’mon, Eds, not in public. You know I like it when you play rough,” Richie grumbles, stumbling out into the aisle. Eddie slaps the back of his head.

“Move, move!” Eddie calls, urging the rest of them into the aisle as they slowly make their way forward. When they get off the bus, Eddie starts off towards the terminal to Boston in a mad dash, weaving in between strangers easily with quiet _excuse me’s_ the entire time. Richie smiles at him, thinking he’d do great in a big city with busy sidewalks.

He daydreams about New York for a moment, that Eddie is pulling his hand through Port Authority and they’re making their way to their apartment in the city. It’s an easy dream to fall into with the way Eddie keeps looking behind him to make sure everyone’s still behind them, with the pigeon that followed them for almost 1,000 feet that Richie affectionately named Jeffery on-sight, and with their friends voices drifting from behind them. Maybe it’s Thanksgiving, and they’re trying to cook for all the Losers again, like they did last year. They’re older in this dream, more experienced in the art of preparing meals, so they do it with great success this time. Everyone is happy. Everyone is in love. Eddie looks warm and inviting in his sweater, their cat on his lap. Cat? Wouldn’t Richie prefer a dog? He knows he would, but it probably wouldn’t be great for a puppy to live all cooped up in Brooklyn. Brooklyn? Would they live in Brooklyn or Manhattan? Maybe even the Bronx? Would they be going to college? Richie isn’t too big on the idea of more school, but he knows that he won’t be able to get a great job without it, and neither would Eddie. Plus, there’s a lot of things that come with college that Richie is attracted to, like clubs and classes that actually interest him. Richie shakes his head with a smile. They’d figure it out. Either way, they’d be happy and far away from Derry.

They _are_ happy and far away from Derry, here, now, in a life Richie only ever thought he’d have to daydream about.

He’s pulled out of his imagination by Eddie snapping in his face. “Earth to Tozier! Ticket! C’mon!” Eddie is trying to reach into Richie’s front pocket himself, not realizing that Just Friends don’t do that in his haze of anxiety. Richie carefully loops his fingers around Eddie’s wrist and drags it away from his crotch, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the ticket himself. The hand Richie is still holding onto flattens expectantly and Richie puts the crumpled paper in his hand that he’d gotten at the Derry bus stop from the driver. Eddie already has everyone else’s tickets, doing a headcount to make sure everyone has everything.

“...And you’re _sure_ the tickets will be at roll call, Bill?” Richie catches as Eddie anxiously awaits the bus to pull up, considering they’re about still 15 minutes away from it arriving.

“I c-c-called ahead and checked, Eds. No worries,” Bill smiles, putting a comforting hand on Eddie’s shoulder. Richie watches the anxiety melt out of him as he smiles back.

“Okay… Sorry I’ve been so wack-a-doodle, guys,” Eddie says, addressing the group. “I don’t do well traveling unless I’m navigating every second of it.”

“We know, buddy,” Ben smiles, rubbing Eddie’s arm affectionately. “It’s fine. We don’t mind, right, guys?”

“Not at all,” Mike smiles. Eddie looks to Kate and grimaces.

“Sorry that I’m like… this…” Eddie gestures to himself with shaking hands, “your first time meeting me since the Halloween Party From Hell.”

“Aw, it’s okay, Eddie,” Kate smiles warmly. “I know how it feels to be nervous.”

“Yeah?” Eddie eyes her curiously, and she raises her own shaking hands.

“I’m not great with traveling to new places either,” she shrugs, letting her hands fall back to her sides. Beverly frowns, leaning in closer.

“Kay, if I’d known that, I’d — ”

“Beverly, it’s okay. Really. I wanted to do this… with you…” she says, smiling up at her. Beverly nods and rests her arm over her shoulders, trying to do so as casually and platonically as possible to not attract onlookers. Kate blushes and ducks her head shyly, wishing she could wrap her arm around Beverly’s waist.

They all perk up when they hear the bus roll into the terminal and Eddie quickly hands back out the tickets as the line starts to slowly move forward. They’re close to the front of the line, so it doesn’t take long for them to board and choose their seats, picking the same arrangement as last time. Eddie lets out a relieved breath when the bus starts moving, slumping in his seat as the driver lists out the series of stops they’ll be making. Richie puts his hand on Eddie’s thigh, a gentle pressure that eases the tension out of his body. They’re en route. They’ll make it on time.

And then Richie jumps out of the seat and demands Beverly draw on his jeans.

“What? No. Draw on your own jeans,” Beverly scowls. “I’m tired. It’s a long ride to Boston.”

“But these are _new jeans_ , Beverly. They’re _too_ new. Eddie wouldn’t let me run them over with my truck to make them look more rustic, so they’re all pristine and shit. Not the vibe I’m going for,” Richie complains, searching through his backpack and procuring a black sharpie. “A-ha! Here.” He brandishes the pen to Beverly who takes it with a roll of her eyes.

“Why can’t you just get Eddie to do it?”

“I would, but he’d probably get annoyed with whatever he draws and draw over it, so there’d just be black splotches all over them,” Richie shrugs. Eddie looks like he’s about to argue, but then deflates and nods in agreement. “Besides, your art is unparalleled, Miss Marsh. Put these gams in The Louvre!” He slaps the side of his own thigh with a cheery grin and Beverly sighs harshly, rolling her eyes.

“Jesus, alright, fine, as long as you stop screaming on this crowded bus…” Beverly grumbles, uncapping the pen with her teeth and scanning Richie’s high-waisted blue jeans. She spits the cap in her lap before nodding decisively. “Alright, turn around.”

“What?”

“Flip over. I’ve got an idea, but you cannot make a single joke about it or I won’t draw anything at all and you’ll have to deal with Eddie’s black holes,” Beverly warns, pointing at him with the marker. “I’m gonna draw on your back pocket.”

“Ooh, jeezum, Bevs, if I’d known you wanted to tap this — ”

“Katie, darling, did I say no jokes?” Beverly asks lightly, turning to Kate.

“I _did_ hear tell of that…” Kate giggles sweetly.

“So I guess Eddie’s black holes are going to be Richie’s new style. Hope you can pull it off, buddy…” she teases with a serious set to her mouth, still toying with the sharpie.

“No! Please, I’ll do anything!” Richie cries. “I’ll give you my ass in silence!”

 _“Please don’t,”_ Beverly shudders.

“I'll give you my ass while screaming!”

 _“Far worse,”_ Beverly groans. “Just turn around and let me do my work in peace.”

Richie does with minimal complaint, one hand on the seat and the other on Eddie's thigh to steady himself while the bus moves. He smiles toothily at Eddie once he's bent over and Beverly begins drawing. “Hey, Eds. How's the view?”

“You're literally just leaning over me. I'm more concerned about Beverly’s view,” he grumbles, leaning over Richie's shoulder to try to see what Beverly’s drawing. She glances up at him and shoos him away.

“No peeking!” Eddie collapses back down in the seat in a huff.

“What, couldn't stand to not look at my ass for more than a few seconds, Eds?” Richie asks with a wolfish grin, leaning in closer and dropping his voice to a low rumble. “You can do more than look, baby boy.”

“Oh, my God, you fucking suck,” Eddie breathes, highly affected but very much annoyed.

“Mm, wish I could,” he says, same lowness in his voice that sends shivers down Eddie's spine. Up until he opens his mouth a little, sticks his tongue into his cheek and pumps his hand in front of his mouth, miming a blowjob.

“Oh, cute,” Eddie sneers. “See if you ever get to do it for real now that you've done that.”

“No! Eds! I'll do anything!” Richie protests laughing. His laughter fades and his smirk grows. “I'll even beg for it.”

“Jesus christ…” Eddie curses, facing away from Richie completely, cheeks burning and shifting noticeably in his seat. _Gotcha,_ Richie thinks with a grin. But at the sight of Eddie's genuine frown, his smile is replaced with a look of concern.

“Hey, Eds, I didn't go to far, did I?” Eddie sighs.

“No,” Eddie sighs. “You're just being you.”

“But…” Richie tries. This, in essence, is true, but who Richie is truly never wants to make Eddie genuinely uncomfortable. “Sorry if I upset you, Spaghetti darling.”

Eddie turns to him then, cracking a smile at the nickname he used for him when they were kids, back when they were just Richie and Eddie and not _RichieandEddie._ Eddie cards a hand through Richie's curls, always unruly and sticking out in too many directions to be any semblance of composed. Eddie thinks it just adds to his charm, though he knows Stanley would disagree. He leans forward and presses a long, chaste kiss to Richie's forehead where he's brushed his hair away.

“S’okay, Rich,” he says quietly into Richie's skin. When Eddie pulls back, Richie's smile is luminous. Eddie trails his hand down to cup Richie's cheek, smiling back at him while he strokes Richie’s cheekbone with his thumb. Richie squeezes his thigh where his hand is still resting.

“You're too good for me,” he whispers. Eddie shakes his head.

“Just good enough.” They smile soppily at each other for a long while until Beverly announces that she's finished, capping the pen proudly. Richie bolts upright and twists to try to get a glimpse of what Beverly drew, but he can only see a few lines where they trail up to his waist, nothing concrete enough to make a full image.

“Eds, Eds, what does it look like?” Richie says excitedly, turning and shoving his ass in Eddie's face.

“Okay, back up,” he laughs, grabbing Richie's hips and walking him forward slightly. “Hold into the seats so you don’t fall.” He does. “There. Now…” He looks at the drawing, and he wishes he could say it didn't take his breath away, but he'd be lying. He still has his hands on Richie’s hips as his eyes trail over the art done on his back pockets. There’s two cartoonish portraits; the smaller one on the left is of Eddie, unmistakably. His big, doe eyes and slight frown are a dead giveaway. He’s wearing a small crown of flowers - daisies, he thinks. But it’s the drawing of Richie on the right that really sends him reeling. It’s considerably larger than the first, but in the same style. Richie, in his thick-rimmed glasses, is wearing an ornate crown on his head as well, but this one is more generic than Eddie’s, almost like the crown he got from the Homecoming Dance that he has sitting on his desk at home. He still parades around in it sometimes to get a laugh out of Eddie. There’s leaves on either side of the crown and he has a cheshire cat smile gracing his face. Richie’s voice pulls him out of his reverie.

“You gonna do somethin’, sugar, or are you just gonna stare ‘til Boston?” Eddie scoffs and shoves him, sending him into the aisle and barrelling into Beverly. They both laugh, which makes Eddie crack a smile.

“Kidding!” Richie giggles, crawling back into his seat. He takes Eddie’s hands in his and kisses his knuckles, looking up at him through his eyelashes. Eddie lets him, his annoyance already fading. “You know this fine piece of meat is willing to wait for your hands to tenderize it.”

Eddie’s smile grows. “Okay, Richie.” He puts his head on Richie’s shoulder and immediately feels his eyes drooping. He hears Richie thank Beverly quietly and Beverly tells him that’s the closest she’s ever getting to his ass in his life. Richie’s laugh echoes through Eddie’s skull. With that and Richie’s thumb constantly running over his knuckles, he’s immediately put to sleep, not even realizing how exhausted he’s been from his energy running so high.

Mike, however, has no such luck.

He and Ben are sitting behind Beverly and Kate, and Ben has never seen his friend this wound up in the year and a half he’s known him. Ben has always been one to let people have their space and not pry - he knows they’ll come to him if they feel comfortable - but after the third hour of sitting beside Mike who is practically vibrating with nerves beside him, he knows he has to ask, because Mike Hanlon is different than his other friends only in the ways they reach out. Mike has always been more reserves, quieter about his issues in a way that Ben can relate to. He isn’t sure if Mike also feels like he’d be burdening people with his problems, but he sure can see that Mike is not going to talk about whatever is bothering him without being prompted first.

“Hey, Mikey,” Ben says quietly, drawing no attention from anyone else but Mike. He turns his head quickly to face him, schooling his face into something he thinks resembles calm.

“What’s up?”

“How are you doing? Are you nervous about the concert?” Ben asks, putting a hand on Mike’s knee gently to still its insistent bouncing.

“Aw, no, not really,” Mike chuckles. “Just… You ever feel like you missed out on a chance to make something great out of the day and there’s no going back on your mistake?”

“All the time, buddy,” Ben says seriously. “I feel like that all the time. What do you feel like your mistake was?”

“I wanted to invite… someone to come with us,” he says carefully, “but I didn’t because I didn’t think it would be very appropriate… or maybe I was scared… either way, they’re not here.”

“Well, it definitely would’ve been appropriate,” Ben laughs. “Look at Beverly - she invited Kate. Our little group seems to be branching out beyond its borders. I don’t see why you can’t do the same.”

“I don’t want to branch out, per say, I just… wish I could bring him into it. That’s all.”

“Hmm. Him,” Ben comments with a small smile, elbowing Mike in the side. “This woulda been like what Beverly and Kate are doing?”

“Hopefully,” Mike laughs hollowly. “Ideally. But I told him we should wait out whatever we are until things are more settled to figure it out, so I figured a date would’ve been sending mixed signals, you know?”

“Oh,” Ben says, brow screwing in in confusion. “I suppose. But why? What’s been going on, Mikey?”

“I…” Mike considers telling Ben everything that’s been going on, but he doesn’t want to do so on a crowded bus. “Can I promise to tell you later? When there’s a few less strangers around?”

“Of course, Mike,” Ben smiles, patting his knee where his hand is still resting before retracting it. “Take all the time you need. There’s no rush.”

Mike smiles, nodding, and looking back at the carpeted seat in front of him. _There’s no rush,_ he repeats to himself. He thinks Ben was more on the nose with that response than he knows.

After finding the theatre relatively easily, they wait on line for a long three and a half hours. They’re very close to the front of the line due to being so early, but it’s a long time to listen to Richie’s horrendous jokes and watch him quite literally bouncing off the walls.

“It’s called parkour, guys!” he shouts excitedly, jumping onto the side of the wall and pushing off. “It’s a real sport! Not like your stupid _baseball_ or whatever.”

“Oh, yeah? Are there parkour teams, Richie? Who’s your favorite?” Stanley deadpans, frowning as he watches Richie with a look mixed with mild disgust and worry for his safety.

“Fuck off!” Richie laughs, jumping off over and over, commenting every time about how that was his best one. Eddie is about ready to explode.

 _“Richie,”_ he grits out. “Knock it off. You’re giving me a headache with all the fucking yelling.”

“Take an Advil, toots!” Richie giggles, but he ceases his jumping, choosing instead to lean against the wall, one foot up and his hands splayed behind him, drumming his fingers against the concrete. “You got some in your fanny pack, I watched you put the bottle in.”

“Oh, yeah,” Eddie says, rooting through it and popping two pills. He swallows them dry, able to easily after years of practice. He smiles up at Richie. “Thanks for remembering.”

“I remember everything,” Richie says sagely, tapping his temple. “This shit’s a steel trap.”

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Eddie says sarcastically, leaning up against the wall with him. Richie winks at him, tapping his pinky against Eddie’s hand.

“Y’mind if I smoke?” Richie asks. Eddie stares at him for a long time until Richie gets self-conscious and begins shifting uncomfortably. “What?”

“You’ve never asked me if you could before, you just… do,” Eddie smiles. Richie shrugs, looking away. Eddie covers Richie’s hand, flattening it against the wall. “Yeah. You can smoke, Rich. I… Thank you for asking.”

“Sure,” Richie mumbles, already pulling his pack out of his front pocket. “Why wouldn’t I? We’re dating.” He says this quietly enough so that only Eddie can hear him, but it still makes both their cheeks blush all the same.

“We’ve been dating for months and you haven’t — oh! You got the American Spirits!” Eddie exclaims, cutting himself off.

“Yeah!” Richie says, distracted from his momentary shyness by the excitement of something new. “New pack, haven’t even tried ‘em yet.”

“I’m glad you got them instead - Parliaments are — ”

“I know, Eds,” Richie smiles before popping the cigarette in his mouth and lighting it up. “I know.” He takes a drag and Eddie watches as he blows the smoke upwards into the air so it doesn’t get in anybody’s faces.

“So? How is it?” Eddie asks. Richie shrugs.

“Bit different. Kinda weird. Not terrible.” Richie flashes a smile at him. “Manageable.”

“Score!” Eddie laughs, pumping his fist.

“Won’t know the official verdict until I’m finished with it, but you know… If I’m not payin’ for ‘em, why not, right?” He and Eddie have been doing research on a different cigarette alternative, considering they both know how terrible Parliaments are, and they found that American Spirits last longer than any other cigarette. In fact, the line begins moving before Richie is even halfway done.

“Aw, shit, I gotta put this thing out before we get to the front…” Richie mumbles, stubbing it on the concrete behind him before crushing it into the ground with his boots.

“Okay, everyone, we all get our tickets from roll call?” Eddie asks their group. They all nod as they begin pulling them out. Eddie grins. “Alright, then. It’s showtime.”

Eddie doesn’t know how they managed it, but there’s only four rows of people between them and the barricade. It’s standing room only, so they all piled in depending on where they were in line. They had all took off running the second they were within the doors of the building and rushed to the front, and they’re glad they did.

Well, all except for Kate.

“Guys…” Kate titters nervously as more and more people come rushing in. “Do you think we’re going to get caught in a mosh pit or something?”

“One can only hope!” Richie cries, punching her shoulder lightly. “That’d be sick!”

“Yeah,” Kate laughs half-heartedly. “Definitely…”

“Kay, we can find somewhere else further in the back if you want,” Beverly offers to her. Kate immediately shakes her head.

“No, we gotta stay with the group. We might lose them if we don’t,” she says, and the idea of losing Mike in this crowd is somehow even worse to Kate than the idea of being shoved around. Mike has always been on the stronger side, and she’s always felt safe around him, so staying right next to him and Beverly is exactly where she wants to be, wherever they are. She smiles reassuringly up at Beverly. “It’s okay. I’m good. Sorry…”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Beverly says gently, and Kate’s whole face lights up at that. Beverly laughs delightedly. “You like that, huh?”

“I’ve, uh… I’ve never really been anyone’s…”

“Yeah,” Beverly says, resting her arm around Kate’s shoulders as casually as possible. To the outside world, they must look like best friends, but the butterflies in both of their stomachs, unseen by anyone but them, betray that completely. “Me neither.”

The stadium is almost packed full by the time Bruce Springsteen steps out on stage. Everyone cheers raucously, and the group of them can hear him laugh before he even makes it to the microphone due to how close they are to the stage. They all join in the applause, Richie hooting and Eddie whistling loudly with his hands. Ben laughs louder than he feels like he has in his life. None of them have ever been to a concert this big before, and they’re entranced the moment Springsteen steps on stage.

“Alright, alright, quiet the hell down,” Bruce laughs into the mic. “I gotta do soundcheck. This isn’t even the official concert yet, you animals.”

“Shit,” Richie sighs. “Look at ‘im, Eds.”

“I’m looking,” Eddie says, mouth dry. Bruce is wearing pants tighter than even Richie’s, and neither of the boys can tear their eyes away from his legs. Richie is the first, looking over at Eddie with a cheeky smile.

“Should I be jealous?” Richie teases. Eddie snorts, turning to him.

“Should I?” he asks with the raise of an eyebrow. Richie laughs, shaking his head and reeling Eddie in by the waist.

“As long as we can share him,” Richie winks. Eddie rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. “Nah. You got me.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks as Bruce tunes his guitar, plucking out singular notes as they reverberate throughout the stadium.

“Absolutely. Hook, line and sinker, babe.” Eddie smiles at him and tips his head on Richie’s shoulder as they both look back up at Bruce.

“Alright, guys, I’m gonna… Yeah. Before anyone else gets out here, I’d like to play this little song for you tonight, wishing you the longest life and the best of everything.” Bruce begins plucking out a familiar tune that has Richie’s arm tightening to a vice grip around Eddie’s shoulder. As soon as he sings the first line, the crowd cheers raucously, as do their friends, but Eddie and Richie are completely silent, afraid if they move, they’ll break the spell. This isn’t possible, Richie wants to say, but he refrains as the audience grows quiet around them and Bruce leans into the mic to warble the song - Eddie and Richie’s song.

 _Wise men say_  
_Only fools rush in_  
_But I can’t help_  
_Falling in love  
__With you_

The crowd is singing along with him as the microphone’s amplification changes to fit Bruce’s voice, but Eddie and Richie can’t hear the shrieking women or the girls behind them who are singing off-key and swaying dramatically, bumping into the two boys. They can only hear the gentle strumming of Springsteen’s guitar, his voice falling over them like some sort of lullaby, but instead of drifting off to sleep, Eddie feels like he’s wide awake.

He presses closer into his boyfriend’s space under the guise of how cramped the venue is beginning to feel, and he turns his head just slightly into the crook of Richie’s throat, pressing his forehead to his jaw, feeling safer than he’s ever felt. He’s always wondered if his father was watching over him; he knows that’s what people say, whether due to genuine belief or simply to quell the sting of loss, but he’s always had trouble fully believing it until this moment, until he was standing in a dark, crowded room listening to a musician his father hailed as a god sing the very song that finally brought him into the arms of the boy beside him. It feels made up, like one of those corny day-time movies his mother always blows through a whole box of tissues watching, but when Richie wraps one of his arms around Eddie’s shoulders and starts to sway gently along with the crowd, Eddie is sure that no script could ever hold a moment quite like this one. He tosses up a silent thank you - to his father, to whatever devine force landed him here on this night, and when he turns to look up at Richie, he finds him smiling.

“One hell of an opener, huh?” Richie whispers, and Eddie nods as the crowd erupts into a frenzied applause, the sound landing on his ears as more of a buzzing than anything. He wishes he had even an ounce of the nerve it would take for him to surge forward and kiss Richie, but there are too many people around them, and that on top of being in a whole new city does not bode well for risk-taking. And so Eddie simply presses as close as he can to the other boy, hoping with all of his might that Richie can somehow feel all he wishes he could say in this moment through the place where their shoulders meet. Richie twitches his hand just slightly to brush his pinky over Eddie’s, hooking them together and squeezing tightly, hoping for the same things.

Kate dips out towards the bathrooms about two hours into the concert with a quick word to Beverly that she’ll be right back. Beverly tries to say something to her, possibly ask her to stay, but Kate is already weaving herself through the sweaty crowd of people, eyes trained to the ground and letting out a constant stream of _sorry, s’cuse me, sorry, sorry._ She cannot _believe_ how long this concert has been going for. She longs for the quiet of her room more than she ever has before. She’s never been so caught between the dichotomy of enjoyment and misery in her life.

The second she’s locked in the bathroom, she lets the shaking she’s been trying to keep at bay intensify. She knows how these things go - she can stave off the panic for a while, she’s practiced at the art of suppression, but there’s only so much her nervous system can take before she overloads. She never knows when that will be, and she didn’t want the attack itself to come where she was in plain view of anyone (and especially, if she’s honest with herself, Beverly. She wants to be a Cool Girl more than anything, someone who can fit with Beverly Marsh and keep up with her, but she knows that’s just not in her code). She slides to the ground, shaking hands delving into her own hair as she rocks back and forth noiselessly.

Kate has learned to keep her attacks quiet after all the years she’s spent in her father’s house. He doesn’t like loud music or when she laughs too loudly on the phone or the dog that barks next door. Her father likes it _quiet_ and so Kate has learned to adapt to that to the point where the quiet has become a necessity for her. She had no idea when Beverly asked her to come it would be this _loud._ She should’ve known, but being right by the speakers with so many screaming girls ringing in her ears - it was too much. It _is_ too much.

She has half a mind to wait out the rest of the concert and find Beverly and the rest of her friends by the entrance once it’s over. She knows that’s so weak of her. She knows she’s being a coward. _Suck it up, Katherine,_ her mother says whenever she finds her rocking back and forth on her bed, the blanket over her head to block out the world. _You’re a teenager now. These little fits will get you nowhere in the real world._ She begged her mom a few months ago to let her go to therapy, but she just scolded her for wanting to waste money. _You’re just fine, Katherine. Nothing that a shrink can do to fix you that I can’t._

Kate knows that isn’t true; it can’t be. Because here she sits having an attack that neither she or her mother can control.

When the door slams open a few minutes into the panic attack, she flinches so hard she jolts and hits her head on the porcelain tile wall. But then she hears her name on the tongue of sweet, comforting voice of Beverly Marsh, and part of her heart calms at the sound.

“Bev?” she croaks out, and Kate can see a pair of feet rush into the room from underneath the stall door. Beverly shuffles around for a moment before Kate ventures out of the stall, cheeks burning with embarrassment and gratefulness.

“Hi, Kay,” Beverly breathes, not rushing to her like Kate thought she might. She lets Kate have her space, lets Kate come to her, and Kate wonders how she knows to do that.

“Hey.” Kate leans against the far wall of the bathroom and slides down it until her knees are pulled close to her chest. Beverly sits across from her, eyes gentle and worried. “Sorry I ducked out.”

“No need to apologize,” Beverly says quietly. “I was just worried about you.”

“You… You were?”

“Of course I was,” Beverly laughs. It’s a lovely sound. Another part of Kate’s heart stills. “Did you think I wouldn’t be?”

“I dunno… I don’t really feel like I… belong.” Kate shuffles uncomfortably, crossing her legs and lacing her hands together tightly in her lap. She stares down at them, unable to meet Beverly’s eyes as she continues. “You guys are all so… extroverted, I guess? And cool. And I’m not either of those things at all.”

She laughs self-deprecatingly and Beverly frowns. She slowly breaches the space between the two of them, giving Kate more than enough time to pull away. When she doesn’t, Beverly covers Kate’s hands with hers. The violent shaking doesn’t exactly stop, but the grip on Kate has on herself loosens a bit, just enough for Beverly to clasp their hands together.

“I said once that we don’t really have an open-door policy in the Losers’ Club. And I think I was right.” Kate’s face visibly crumbles, and Beverly gives her a soft smile. She unlaces one of their hands to reach up and tuck a rogue curl behind Kate’s ear. Beverly cups her cheek and wipes at the moist skin underneath her eye slowly, gently. Kate tries to meet her eyes and finds only affection before she quickly looks away again. “But I think my heart is open,” she whispers. It’s barely audible over the music, and Kate finally looks up and meets Beverly’s eyes head-on. She looks like her heart has caught on fire. Blazing. Beverly wants to drown in the flames.

“You think?” she asks, the wrecked, unsure quality of her voice clashing with how certain her eyes have become.

Beverly nods. “I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”

And this, they both know, is the moment. Kate knows Beverly is going to lean in to kiss her before she does. In about 20 seconds, they’re going to be kissing, and Kate will have kissed a girl. _The_ girl. Beverly Marsh. Her mind is racing, but she keeps getting caught on how damn _lucky_ she is that Beverly is here with her at all.

And then she does lean in, slowly, carefully, giving Kate the chance to reject her, to tell her no. Beverly wants nothing more than Kate’s comfortability in that moment, whether that means they kiss in this grimy bathroom with Bruce Springsteen crooning in the background or not. But Kate’s eyes flicker down to Beverly’s lips, and they both smile. Beverly remembers how hard they all worked to get Richie and Eddie their Moment. Maybe Beverly can have a Moment of her own.

Kate sighs softly, and the sound licks across Beverly’s skin before her mouth does. They close the distance between themselves swiftly with the knowledge that even if society doesn’t want them to, they’re allowed to have their Moment.

Their lips move together clumsily, sweetly, and it’s a bit of an uncomfortable angle. Kate’s back aches from standing for so long, and Beverly has to crouch a bit to reach Kate’s mouth. The song is something wild, _Born in the USA_ maybe, and Kate wants to laugh at how unsexy the whole thing is. But she’s here with Beverly Marsh and they’re _kissing,_ so really, nothing about it could ever be described as bad.

It’s both of their first kisses with a girl, and it’s magic. Kate thinks her heart should be racing, her palms should be sweating, and her hands should be shaking. She was so nervous for her first kiss with Nick, and she was neck-deep in a panic attack only five minutes ago. But her heart is not thundering like it did with Nick. There’s no fear in this moment at all. No fear with the bravery of Beverly Marsh.

Beverly breaks the kiss to catch her breath and leans her forehead against Kate’s, eyes still closed. She smiles, big and broad and happy, and Kate does the same. After months, years of struggling, after a lifelong search within themselves, they have finally found a bit of peace.

 

* * *

 

Working at the Aladdin, Stanley thinks, is not all it’s cracked up to be. Richie insists that he would give his left arm for the privilege of wearing the heinously tacky red and white striped shirt and black vest that employees at the Aladdin are required to wear, but after working at the movie theater since summertime, Stanley still cannot quite see the allure.

Truthfully, the only reason he drags himself out of bed and to work on Saturday mornings is because he gets to see Bill, who was hired around the same time as him. Ever since the two of them had become a couple, they’ve been struggling to find time alone together; it is nearly impossible to relax in Stanley’s home what with his father breathing down their necks at all times, and when that isn’t the case, they are out gallivanting around Derry with the rest of their friends in tow. Very rarely did they have moments without the group as a whole, but their Saturday morning shifts are an exception, and Stanley thinks he can deal with the stale popcorn kernels stuck to the soles of his sneakers and feeling like he is perpetually cleaning up spilled slushies if it means he and Bill can sneak into whatever movie is playing during their shared break. Today, it is _The Muppet Christmas Carol._

Bill is beaming throughout the entire film, his eyes bright as he watches the Muppets dance and sing on screen, and Stanley is sure he’s never looked more precious than he does in that moment. He looks almost exactly like Georgie, and when Stanley leans over to suggest in a whisper that they bring the little boy to see the movie on their next shared day off, Bill nods immediately, tossing another handful of popcorn into his mouth while Stanley laughs at Fozzi-Bear. Bill looks over at his boyfriend fondly, tearing his eyes from the screen for the first time that afternoon, and he rests his cheek on Stanley’s shoulder with a deep sigh. He brushes his fingers over Stanley’s where they are resting on his knee until his hand is completely enveloping Stanley’s, and he gets very still, his breath hitching in his throat. Stanley wonders if he’ll ever get used to holding Bill’s hand. He hopes not as he twists his hand beneath Bill’s to link their fingers together, brushing his thumb over the back of Bill’s hand, and Bill feels his whole body blush. He looks shyly at Stanley, and Stanley is already looking at him, his own blush flaring on his already pale cheeks. Neither of them are stupid; they know how dangerous it can be to hold hands in public like this, but something about the darkness of the movie theater makes them feel safe.

“H-H-Hey…” Bill chokes out quietly, and Stanley raises his free hand to stroke his cheek.

“Hi…” Stanley whispers back, his gaze moving from Bill’s eyes and down to his lips and back again - a silent request. Bill is the first to lean forward, slowly, and Stanley all but leaps into his boyfriend’s lap. Bill gasps against his lips, never expecting these surges of passion from his mild-mannered boyfriend, but he thinks he wouldn’t mind one bit if Stanley never stopped surprising him like this. Stanley feels his boyfriend’s lips curl up in a sweet smile as he kisses him, and they're so lost in each other they don't even notice the house lights go up for a few seconds.  

When they do, they leap apart and Bill looks around them quickly, his heart pounding. They’re the only ones in the balcony, but that doesn't mean somebody couldn't have looked up from below and spotted them.

 _“Hey,”_ Stanley whispers, running his hand up and down Bill’s arm. “It’s alright…” and Bill relaxes when he sees how at ease Stanley is. He squeezes Bill’s hand and leans forward to kiss the bridge of his boyfriend’s nose gently. “We’re alright.”

“Yeah,” Bill nods quietly, resting his forehead against Stanley’s. “So,” he says after a beat of silence, “h-how ‘bout that movie, huh?” He grins and Stanley rolls his eyes, playing with the fingers of Bill’s hand that he is still holding.

“I can’t really say - got a little distracted…” Stanley replies, smirking, and he can hear the sound of more moviegoers filing into the theater for the next showing. Bill looks around again, wary, and Stanley’s heart aches for a day when they won’t have to look over their shoulders.

“W-We should head back to work,” Bill reminds.

“Yeah,” Stanley whispers back, and his eyes flicker around them to make sure no one is looking at them. He leans closer and kisses Bill’s cheek, and while his lips are still by his ear, he adds, “...to be continued.”

Bill is still reeling once he and Stanley return to finish to work and is quite sure he’ll have to spend the rest of this shift wishing they could steal away into another theater when his job suddenly gets _very_ interesting.

“Look who I fucking found,” he hears Stanley’s voice say from behind him, and Bill whirls around to see his boyfriend all but dragging Richie by his jacket collar towards where Bill is sweeping up popcorn near the snackbar. Eddie is following close behind them both, trying to conceal his laughter behind his large soda cup and ultimately failing when Richie drops his weight without warning, nearly dragging Stanley to the floor along with him. “Get up, you Neanderthal, before I make Bill throw you into the dumpster, too!”

“Oh, Staniel, while I simply love it when you manhandle me, you are taking this job _way_ too seriously,” Richie drones, starting to make snow-angels in the candy wrappers littering the floor where he’s lying. Bill whacks him gently in the shoulder with the broom to get him to stop. “You’re an _usher_ ,” he continues, “not a _bouncer._ ”

“I’m going to _bounce_ you if you don’t get up,” Stanley threatens, and Eddie holds his hand out to his boyfriend, who takes it gleefully and allows Eddie to hoist him back to his feet. “What the fuck are you two doing sneaking into a kids’ movie anyway?” Richie gasps like he’s been mortally wounded.

“How _dare_ you! _Aladdin_ is a film for all ages! One of the greatest of this generation!” Richie shouts, drawing eyes of ticket-buyers. Eddie tries to shush him, but as always, that simply fuels Richie’s fire. “Robin Williams is an icon! _You,_ sir, do not deserve to wear that vest!” He points wildly at Stanley’s uniform, and the other boy does not even deign to give him a response that’s more than an eyeroll. “And I blew all of my money in Sue’s before,” Richie adds as an afterthought, which makes Bill chuckle.

“You and your ch-chili fries,” he sighs, and Eddie nods solemnly.

“He has a serious problem, Bill,” he insists. “Two whole orders of ‘em and he still demanded a milkshake…”

“Excuse you, Sue’s milkshakes are _heavenly_ and it would be an absolute crime for anyone to set foot in her establishment without getting the full experience!” Richie defends hotly, and Eddie shakes his head at the ceiling.

“Okay, babe. Sure.”

“You know you could’ve just asked us for tickets, Rich,” Stanley says, and Richie turns pink.

“I can’t have people thinking that I can’t afford to splurge on my man,” he says, making sure to lower his voice so that no outside parties can hear him, and Eddie snorts.

“I _literally_ have money, ding-dong, and you know it. You just wanted to sneak in,” he accuses, poking his boyfriend in the side, and Richie shrugs.

“Eh, you caught me,” he admits. He then throws his arms straight out in front of him, offering his wrists to Stanley as his upper body droops forward. “Go on, Uris - throw me in the brig,” he moans in a pirate Voice.

“I literally can’t fucking stand you,” Stanley sighs, but there’s a touch of fondness still. “What the fuck, I don’t care - go back in the theatre, but be _quiet_ for shit’s sake. The only reason I knew you were in there is because I heard you both whispering from _outside the theater.”_

“We’ll be quiet, Stanley, we promise!” Richie titters, smiling brightly and clasping his hands together underneath his chin. “Please let us back in? Please, please, please? What’s the point of having power if you can’t abuse it?”

“Oh, my God,” Bill laughs while Stanley begins rambling about the due process of things and how abuse of power is _not_ something to be joked about.

“I get it, I get it, jeez… I just wanted to do something nice with my Spaghetti. You understand, don’t you, Stan?” Richie sighs, fluttering his eyelashes.

“That shit doesn’t work on me, Tozier. Those big puppy eyes have no effect on my blackened heart,” Stanley says, looking stone-faced to the untrained eye, but to his three friends, he seems wary, like he’s about four seconds away from giving Richie whatever he wants. He sighs harshly. “Fine. Go. Quickly and quietly. Goodbye.”

As soon as he turns, Bill gives them both a thumbs up and they giggle, making a break for it back down the hallway.

Richie and Eddie make it back to the Kaspbrak house unscathed despite Stanley’s very real threat about kicking Richie to the curb if he tried to steal another bucket of popcorn ( _“You can’t keep me from those buttery confections forever, Stanley!”_ “Eddie, please get him out of here before I kill him…”). It is later, and Sonia Kaspbrak has since gone to bed, having waited up in her recliner until her son returned home for the night, and Eddie had given her a reluctant run-down of his day, fibbing every so often to keep her from growing suspicious about how much time he’s been spending with Richie. He usually tells her that a handful of their other friends are with them when they do anything, and on this day, it isn’t a _complete_ lie because Bill and Stanley _were_ with them. Sure, not the _entire_ time, but Eddie figures his mother doesn’t need to know everything.

While he usually abhors having to hash out every minute detail to her, he doesn’t mind it so much as of late because it gives his boyfriend ample time to crawl through his bedroom window and wait for him to get upstairs. Eddie thinks he hears a quiet _thump_ from his bedroom - probably Richie hitting his knee on his desk like he does every _fucking_ time (“I swear this thing moves on its own, Eds!”) and so Eddie says a rushed good-night to his mother and hurries up the stairs, feigning deafness when Sonia shouts after him that he forgot her kiss.

Eddie finds Richie already lying on his bed, grinning upside down at him as he kicks his feet in the air before letting them land softly against his headboard. Eddie pushes them aside with a slight noise of disgust.

“Don’t put your monkey feet by my pillows, you freak,” he laughs as he sits down and lays Richie’s legs across his lap. “I’d have to power-wash them to get _that_ smell out.” Richie clicks his tongue and sits up with a pout.

“You’re so mean,” he whines dramatically, and Eddie shushes him.

“Oh, sure,” he deadpans, wrapping his arms around Richie’s waist so that he can pull him further into his lap. Richie relaxes instantly once he’s in the other boy’s arms, and he burrows into his chest, tucking his head beneath Eddie’s chin. “I’m just the meanest boyfriend in the world.”

“You are,” Richie nods, and his curls brush against Eddie’s jaw, tickling him. “You’re lucky you’re so goddamn cute…” Eddie scratches at Richie’s scalp lightly and the boy hums, leaning into his touch, and Eddie feels better as he looks over Richie’s face and sees no sign of hurt. He is sure deep down that Richie knows his teasing is wrought with affection, but he still worries sometimes. Most of the time. “Did you have a good day today, meanest, cutest boyfriend ever?” Richie mumbles sleepily, turning his head a bit to brush his lips along the line of Eddie’s throat, and Eddie chuckles to mask the sound of his breath hitching in the back of his throat. He rests his cheek against the top of Richie’s head before speaking.

“Of course I did,” he answers. “I love being with you.” Richie’s head snaps up and all Eddie can see is a flash of his brilliant smile before Richie is peppering his face with close-mouthed kisses, and Eddie giggles.

“I love being with you, too, cutie,” Richie promises, and Eddie leans back against his pillows, pulling the other boy with him so that he can rest against his chest. He trails his hand slowly along Richie’s spine and they lie in silence for a while, something Richie is finding to be easier and easier, at least when it’s the two of them. He almost falls asleep like that, but then Eddie is shifting underneath him, and Richie opens one eye to peer up at his boyfriend curiously.

“Baby, can I talk to you about something?” Eddie wonders as he runs his hand through Richie’s curls, almost like a nervous tic. Richie scoots a little further up alongside him so that he can prop his chin against the other boy’s sternum, and he nods.

“Anything,” he assures, and Eddie lets out a shaky breath.

“You… You said something back at the Aladdin earlier, and I just - I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it all day,” he admits sheepishly, and Richie, because he’s Richie and he is terrified of uncharted territory, allows Trashmouth to surface.

“Well, baby, if you needed it _that bad,_ we could’ve left the movie early -- ” Eddie wraps his fingers delicately around the nape of Richie’s neck and kneads them gently into his skin, tilting his head up slightly so that he is forced to meet his eyes, his soft, loving, entirely _not angry_ eyes. Richie unconsciously lets out a breath at the sight.

“I’m serious, Rich,” Eddie whispers, still smoothing the curls at the base of Richie’s skull with his fingers, and Richie gazes back up at him.

“Okay,” he sighs. “What was it?”

“When Stan and Bill offered to give us tickets, you made a comment about how you didn’t want people to think you couldn’t afford to take me on dates,” Eddie blurts out, and Richie looks down at his boyfriend’s chest where he starts to trace the _Spider-Man_ emblem on his T-shirt, feeling his cheeks beginning to burn.

“Yeah, well… I mean, now that I’m workin’ at Freese’s, my mom has stopped giving me an allowance, which is fair, I guess. But most of my money goes to gas now - Cherry Bomb eats that shit up, I swear, the lady is insatiable,” he cracks, but his voice is wavering. “I don’t know, Eds. I’m your boyfriend, I should be able to take you out and not have to penny-pinch.”

“ _Okay,_ baby, but _I’m_ also _your_ boyfriend,” Eddie says, his voice gentle but firm, and he takes Richie’s chin between two of his fingers carefully to lift his head up. “There’s no agenda to fulfill and I don’t want there to have to be. You shouldn’t have to pay for us both all of the time,” he insists, brushing his thumb gently over Richie’s lips, and Richie catches his wrist in his hand so that he can kiss Eddie’s palm sweetly. “This is an equal partnership, Rich.”

“You’re right, Eds,” Richie smiles, resting his cheek in Eddie’s palm and linking their fingers together. “You’re absolutely right… I guess I was just being silly.”

“You’re always silly,” Eddie refutes fondly, and Richie puffs out a laugh as he lets their foreheads bump together. “It’s sweet that you wanna do all that for me, baby, but I wanna spoil you sometimes, too, you know…” Richie’s eyebrows jump suggestively.

“Oh, you _do_ , do you?” he smirks as he coils his arms around Eddie’s waist, and Eddie giggles when he kisses just behind his ear. Richie sighs deeply and holds his boyfriend close to his chest. “I like the sound of that, Eds,” he adds after a moment, thinking about how no one in his life has ever wanted to spoil him. Not his parents, none of his family, and he feels a little light-headed at the thought that Eddie wants to. His best friend - his _boyfriend_ \- wants to _spoil_ him. He’s on top of the world. Eddie turns to kiss his cheek.

“I do, too.”

 

* * *

 

Eddie is barely in his bedroom for five minutes a few days later before the phone begins to ring. He’s laughing when he answers it, hooking his finger beneath the receiver to carry it over to his bed. “You _just_ dropped me off - what could you possibly have to say now?” he teases lightly, smiling when he hears a gasp from the opposite end.

“I’m _insulted -_ you don’t miss me?!” Richie shouts, and Eddie laughs again as he works his t-shirt over his head with one arm before tossing it into the hamper in the corner of the room, carefully watching as it goes in; he wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing a dirty shirt was on the floor.

“You just left! You didn’t give me enough time to start missing you!” And Richie gasps again.

“How dare you! I’m hanging up!” Richie threatens playfully, and Eddie rolls his eyes as he flops onto his mattress.

“No, you aren’t…” he sings into the telephone, a knowing grin on his face, and he can hear Richie’s quiet sigh of defeat.

“I could never hang up on you...” Richie admits. It’s said so softly that it makes Eddie blush, and there is a brief pause before Richie adds, in a very small voice, “Do you really not miss me?”

“Of course I miss you, you fucking idiot,” Eddie deadpans, and he can practically see Richie’s smiling face.

“I love it when you sweet-talk me, babydoll,” Richie purrs.

Eddie shakes his head, running a hand through his hair as he bites his lip. “You’re too much for me, Richie Tozier,” he sighs as he lays back onto his pillow, propping one of his arms behind his head.

“Oh, please - you _love_ it.” Richie accuses.

“I never said I didn’t.” Eddie hears the boy on the opposite end of the call suck in a sharp breath. “Richie?” he prompts when Richie stays silent for just a moment longer.

“God, why am I not kissing you right now?” Richie practically growls into the phone and Eddie feels his entire body grow tingly. “Every minute I spend _not_ kissing you is an entire waste of my goddamn time…”

“You’re such a drama queen,” Eddie jokes, but he’s completely breathless. The knowledge that Richie was missing him was enough to make him dizzy, but his composure had up and flown the nest the moment he knew that Richie was thinking about kissing him. _God._

“That’s me - Homecoming King, Drama Queen, Keeper of the Keys to Eddie Kaspbrak’s heart…” Richie trails off, a smile in his voice that makes Eddie’s heart melt. “But enough about me, let’s talk about you - more specifically, what are you wearing?”

“Oh, my _God,_ ” Eddie barks out a laugh. “Pump the brakes there, Casanova - I am not about to get you off over the _phone._  Especially when my mom could pick up at any moment.”

Richie clicks his tongue disappointedly. “You’re no fun,” he says, but Eddie can tell Richie’s just playing around, that he’s perfectly content to just be hearing his voice.

Eddie knows how lonely Richie gets in his own home, what with his mother’s hectic work schedule. Maggie Tozier has been taking extra hours at the diner in town to help with the family’s financial strain, so that means she’s hardly ever home anymore at night. Eddie knows that Richie hates being alone in any capacity, that he only feels safe when he’s in the company of somebody else, whoever it is, and he knows that even if he can’t physically be there in Richie’s room with him every night, he can at least talk to him over the phone until the other boy falls asleep.

Almost on cue, Richie lets out a yawn.

“You should get some sleep, baby - don’t you have that big History test tomorrow?” Eddie asks, and he doesn’t even need to see Richie to know that just the thought of an exam had brought a sour grimace to his face.

“History schmistory,” Richie grumbles. “I wanna -- ” Another yawn escapes him, “talk to you…” Eddie rolls his eyes lovingly.

“You’re all tired out from the trip, baby. Go to sleep,” Eddie urges gently. “I’ll see you tomorrow at school -- ”

“No!” Richie whines, letting the word drag out for far too long. “I’m not even tired!” Even if he didn’t succumb to yet _another_ yawn, Eddie still wouldn’t believe him.

“Baby,” Eddie says sternly.

“Hmm?”

_“Go - to - bed.”_

“You go to bed…” Richie replies cheekily.

“Okay - goodnight,” Eddie teases, making like he is about to hang up the phone.

“ _No!_ Don’t you dare!”

“Ugh, _fine,_ ” Eddie sighs, twirling the phone cord around his fingers. “But don’t come crying to me tomorrow if you get detention for falling asleep in class - _again_.”

Richie scoffs on the other end. “Shit, you’d fall asleep in class too if you had to listen to Mr. Gomes talk about the Industrial Revolution for an hour. I swear, he cares so goddamn much about it, I’m starting to wonder if it was ‘cause he was fucking there for it…” Eddie laughs sleepily, feeling a yawn of his own working its way up his chest. “Tired, doll?”

“ _Very_ , and my boyfriend is a brat who won’t let me sleep…”

“I resent that!” Richie cries. “Just for that, I think I deserve to know what you’re -- ”

“Richie Tozier,” Eddie says slowly, “if you ask me what I’m wearing one more time, I’m hanging up the phone.”

“Only a shirtless boy would make such a threat -- ”

 _“Hanging up!”_ Eddie declares, but he is laughing all the same as he sits up to kick his jeans off.

“Wait, no!” Richie yelps, chuckling, too, nothing short of absolute exhaustion in his voice now. “Please, I’ll stop, I’ll stop. Really. I’m just messing with you…” Eddie sighs, settling back onto his pillow, and he runs one of his hands through his hair.

“You’re so tired, any and all tact you have has flown totally out the window - and you don’t have much to begin with,” Eddie reminds, a soft smile on his face.

“Can you _blame_ me? You’re so infuriatingly _cute,_ ” Richie whines under his breath just before falling victim to another yawn. “You with those big brown eyes and that stupid button nose and your _hair..._ ” He is mumbling almost inaudibly now, his exhaustion seeming to hit him all at once, and he might have actually fallen asleep then if what Eddie said next didn’t cause him to jolt awake so quickly he nearly shoots out of bed.

“I’m in my underwear,” is what he _thinks_ he hears Eddie say, but the other boy’s voice is so low when he says it that Richie wonders briefly if he is _already_ asleep and just in the midst of a very colorful dream. It would be a bold-faced lie if Richie were to say he’d never imagined his boyfriend in as little clothing as possible, and Richie would never deny that he’s had trouble forgetting the way Eddie had looked that night he’d climbed through his window and seen him in his boxers, but for Eddie to place that image in his mind _himself?_ Richie feels his cheeks flare up like police sirens.

"You’re... underwear…” Richie mutters, his heart racing the longer he lets his mind entertain the thought of Eddie lying in bed with next to nothing on. “You’re... wait, _hold on_ \-- !"

“Goodnight, baby. Sweet dreams,” Eddie whispers low, and Richie can practically hear the triumphant grin on the boy’s face, and he throws his head back against his pillow as the familiar _click_ of an end to a phone call meets his ears. He groans loudly, already knowing there isn’t any chance of him getting a good night’s sleep after that, and he knows one more thing for sure: Eddie Kaspbrak is trying to kill him.

Richie is still shaken to his core the following morning as he makes his way into school, his eyes heavy as he barely got more than an hour of sleep the night before. He knows he is running late, so it doesn’t come as a shock when he’s the last of his friends to arrive at the bike rack, and he stalks up to the group of them, eyes wild, pointing madly at Eddie, and growls, _“You.”_

The others look up in a state of mutual confusion, each of them turning to look at one another, wondering what exactly has gotten into Richie. The only one who doesn’t seem baffled by this outburst is Eddie; in fact, he’s smiling as if it were the norm, like nothing at all had happened last night on the phone to result in Richie nearly foaming at the mouth, like he wasn’t talking to his boyfriend in his _underwear._

“Hi, baby,” Eddie says sweetly, bumping their shoulders together, and he sounds so fucking cute when he says it that Richie almost forgets what he did. Almost.

“That’s it?” Richie asks, voice low. “That’s all you have to say for yourself?” he prompts, eyebrows raised so high they might just as well disappear into his hairline. He follows after Eddie as the boy heads inside the school, the rest of the group in tow, all watching the two of them with bated breath.

“Whaddya mean?” Eddie asks, forehead wrinkling in a way that reminds Richie of fucking Shar pei puppies or some cute shit like that, and Richie is ready to slap himself for letting his boyfriend throw him off like this. _Pull yourself together, Tozier,_ he says to himself, and he takes just one step closer to Eddie, pinning him to the wall of lockers behind him.

 _“I mean,”_ Richie whispers as he slips three of his fingers up underneath Eddie’s shirt and rests them on his hip, “you ruined my life last night.” The way his body is angled, his hand beneath the other boy’s shirt wasn’t visible to anyone else.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Drama Queen Tozier, back from the dead…” he teases, but Richie can hear a slight quiver in his voice.

“Yeah, definitely back from the dead - you killed me…” Richie accuses, and Eddie laughs brightly, tangling a hand in Richie’s curls and leaning his hip further into the lockers.

“Good thing, too,” Eddie whispers. “I don’t kiss dead boys.”

Richie’s knees all but buckle when he sees the careless smirk on his boyfriend’s face; honestly, he probably would have fallen over if not for his arm being propped against the locker just over Eddie’s head keeping him upright. Beverly’s jaw is on the floor as she watches her best friend render Richie Tozier utterly incapacitated, leaving him in such a state of helplessness; she didn’t think Eddie had it in him, but she is unspeakably proud of him.

Richie is even a little proud himself, and a little annoyed that he’s this turned on at 7 A.M. on a Thursday  _in school._ Nothing about that can be legal - in fact, he knows he must be breaking _some_ sort of health code to be this violently attracted to someone. Richie’s eyes dart around the hall to see if anybody else but their friends has filtered inside the school yet, and when he finally acknowledges his surroundings enough to hear the slamming of lockers and the typical chatter of a high school hallway, he bites his lip and whispers, “We are _not_ done talking about this…” before pushing himself onto his feet to stand upright.

Eddie is still leaning there and, with a grin, asks, “That a promise?”

Richie smiles, his hand flying up in a salute. “Aye-aye, toots. Certain death awaits you…” Eddie’s grin expands until his eyes fold up with the sheer force of it, and for everything that’s happened to Richie in the last 24 hours, _that’s_ what gets his heart beating so loudly, he’s sure anyone within a mile radius can hear it.

“Looking forward to it,” Eddie winks.

 _Oh, he’s toast,_ Richie decides immediately.  

“Mrs. Mendel, the principal wants to see Eddie Kaspbrak in his office immediately.”

Eddie’s head snaps up from where he had been resting it on his desk at the sound of his boyfriend’s voice, finding him in the doorway of his Chemistry lab, brandishing a hall pass that Eddie is certain he had swiped from the main office ages ago. ( _“For emergencies, doll…”)_ Eddie bites his lip to keep from smirking, and he shakes his head at Richie as Mrs. Mendel is bent over her desk, filling out a hall pass of his own. He gets up from his seat, leaving his bag and his books behind, and takes the pass from her with a smile before turning on his heel to follow Riche out of the classroom.

They’re not five feet down the hallway before Eddie scoffs, “The _principal,_ Tozier? That was the best you could do?” He tuts disappointedly. _“Weak…”_

“Weak?” Richie challenges. “I’ll show you weak.”

He grabs his hand and shoves him into the nearest bathroom, locking the door behind them, and Eddie yelps when Richie pushes him up against the wall and kisses him hard, sighing into his mouth. Richie is decently taller than him, and there’s enough of a difference in height for Eddie to need to stretch on his toes to wrap his arms around his shoulders. When he stretches, it causes his shirt to ride up a bit. Richie takes advantage of this, slipping his hand up beneath it, not unlike how he did that very same morning, only this time, Eddie doesn’t have to bite back the whimper crescendoing in his throat. Richie pulls back a second and he’s got his other hand in Eddie’s hair, his fingernails raking along his scalp in a way that makes his spine shake.

“Missed you, Eds…” he whispers, and Eddie is gone, eyes fluttering closed as he sighs. He slides down the door a bit, his knees giving out beneath him before Richie’s hand tightens on his ribs. “Whoa, there, honey,” Richie says, smirking, picking up Eddie’s wrist to check his watch. “Estimated time of death, 11:24 A.M.?”

Eddie narrows his eyes a bit, a natural response, almost built-in at this point, but he isn’t even upset, and Richie knows it. He starts to kiss Eddie’s neck slowly and Eddie gasps, his fingernails sinking into Richie’s shoulder blades.

“No marks this time,” Eddie reminds, panting. “I’m running out of excuses for the doctors…” He feels Richie’s lips curl into a grin against his throat.

“Oh, believe me - I learned my lesson from last time...”

“You’ve never learned a single fucking lesson in your life,” Eddie shoots back, words getting more and more high-pitched as Richie’s hand skirts up his ribs.

“How are you still _talking?_ ” Richie growls, voice low and dangerous as he slots their legs together. “I must not be doing my job right. By the end of this, you’re not going to even remember your name.” And he pushes his thigh up in the same moment that he licks into Eddie’s mouth, hot, searing, and bruising.

 _“Richie,”_ Eddie breathes into the other boy’s mouth. “Baby, I don’t want to get - _you know…_ during _school…_ ”

Richie pulls back slightly and tips his thigh just a bit higher. “What, like you made me just a couple hours ago?” Eddie looks at him in wonder, playing with the fine hairs at the nape of Richie’s neck.

“You got turned on just from that?” he asks breathlessly, and Richie shrugs.

“I’m sixteen, Eds,” Richie shrugs. “Felt like I had to get off, like, six times just to go to sleep after all those images you put in my head. Not exactly sleepy-time matieral you gave me there. What do you want from me, blood?” He asks in his Seymour Krelborn Voice, grinning cheekily. Richie suddenly sees something glint deep in Eddie’s eyes.

“Oh, yeah? You’re asking me what I _want?”_  Eddie all but moans, and Richie almost chokes.

“Fuck. You really are going to be the death of me, Kaspbrak…” Richie breathes, and he closes what little distance there is between them, kissing him agonizingly slow. Eddie’s fingers tighten in his hair as he kisses him back, meeting the other boy’s tongue with his own, and that sends Richie’s head whirling as he moves to pull him closer still, hands pawing at the boy’s back, his hips, _him._ Richie always likes Eddie, sure, _definitely_ , but he likes Eddie _a lot_ when he’s like this - panting and moaning, hair tousled, lips wet and pink and smiling against his own, sighing his name. Richie is never sure if he exists at all until Eddie breathes his name into existence, until he feels Eddie’s hand pressed flush over his heart like he’s shocking him to life, Frankenstein’s Monster-style.

Eddie feels something, too - pounding on the door of the bathroom. His eyes fly open. Richie’s back wasn’t against the door, he couldn’t feel it, so he stares back at his boyfriend, baffled at the look of terror in his eyes. He feels his stomach twist.

“Eds, what’s the matter?” And then he hears it: a scoff from the other side of the door, but he doesn’t have enough time for hysteria to set in before he hears a familiar voice.

“Somehow, I just _knew_ it was you two in there,” Beverly sighs, a knowing smirk in her tone, “so just open the door and _maybe_ I’ll consider keeping this between us.” Richie and Eddie stare back at one another and then burst into laughter, realizing that in their lustful haze, they’d stolen into the girl’s bathroom by mistake. Tears spring to Eddie’s eyes, probably a result of coming down from a potential panic attack, and Richie untangles himself from the other boy, reaching for the door handle.

“If you wanted to join us, Beverly, all you had to do was ask…” Richie says as he fiddles with the lock, and Eddie kicks him as Beverly groans from the other side of the door.

“I’d rather eat nothing but paste for an entire _year_ than see for even one second what was happening in there…” she insists, and when the door opens and she sees how disheveled Eddie is - _Eddie_ with his shirt half-untucked and his hair going in every direction and his lips already starting to swell - she just quietly whistles. “Jeez, Tozier, you know Eds has breathing trouble, right? You even let him come up for air?”

Richie leans his shoulder against the threshold of the bathroom and pulls Eddie to his side by the belt-loops of his jeans. “Well, sure - if he asks nicely,” he says, sending Eddie a wink. Eddie hits his arm this time, but he blushes deeply, resorting to hiding his face in Richie’s shoulder. Eddie’s weak for a well-placed wink.

“You might wanna tidy yourself up some before you head back to class, Eds,” Beverly teases, and she sends a wink of her own his way as well before pushing past her friends and into the bathroom.

 

Eddie finally returns to class after a hurried attempt of fixing his hair in the boy’s room and having to re-tuck his shirt into his jeans three whole times, as Richie couldn’t keep his hands to himself while he nibbled on the boy’s neck, kissing his way up behind his ear as Eddie swatted at him half-heartedly.

“Don’t miss me too much, doll,” Richie sings as he drops the other boy off just outside the Chemistry lab, and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Go to class and try to learn something useful, you doofus,” he says lovingly, and Richie blows him four kisses as he walks away. Eddie makes a point to catch every last one before opening the classroom door and slipping inside in a manner he hopes will be undetected by his classmates.

It’s not.

The door clambers shut behind him so loudly that he winces, and the entire class whirls around in their seats to stare at him. Somebody lets out a puff of a laugh, which gets the entire classroom going, and someone shouts, “Damn, Kaspbrak - Principal Andrews sure did a number on you!” when they take in the puffiness and slight bruise to Eddie’s lips.

“That’s enough, that’s enough,” Mrs. Mendel calls. “Settle down, now. Mr. Kaspbrak, take your seat so I can continue with my lesson…”

Eddie nods, flushed from head to toe, and he makes his way back to his seat, feeling his shoulders hunch forward the more eyes follow him. By the time he reaches his desk, he is almost completely curled into himself; he looks down at his hand, still closed in a fist after he’d caught Richie’s kisses, and he feels the tension in his chest ease up. He smiles and settles more comfortably in his seat, taking up his pencil, and he begins to hastily copy down all that he’d missed while he was out of the room, scribbling down the last of the notes just as the bell for lunch rings out through the lab.

Eddie blinks stupidly. _Was I really out of the room that long?_ He peers up at the clock hanging just overtop of the chalkboard. **12:30 P.M.** Eddie shakes his head dazedly and gathers up his belongings, placing them neatly into his bag before tossing it over his shoulder and exiting the room to make his way towards the cafeteria.

Richie cannot conceal his triumphant smirk when he notices that, despite the boy’s best attempts, Eddie still looks like he was absolutely ravaged; his lips are even more swollen and there’s something too put-together about his hair, like he’s trying too hard to hide the tracks made by Richie’s fingers. Beverly, of course, knows the truth, as she always does, but she is still impressed with Richie’s handiwork when the two of them take their usual places at the table. Ben is already seated beside Bill and showing him a small box he’d crafted in woodshop, equipped with tiny drawers for storage, and Stanley is trading snacks with Kate, the latter bartering Swiss cake rolls for his Hershey bar - a typical Monday at the lunch-table now that Kate and Beverly are officially together.

Ben looks up as Richie and Eddie sit down, and when his eyes land on Eddie, he snorts, shaking his head at Richie.

“Hey, Eddie, where’d you get the fat lip from?” Kate wonders innocently, which makes Beverly have to put her forehead on the table, her shoulders shaking with a silent laughter.

“Jesus, Tozier, were you trying to eat him?” Stanley mutters and Bill coughs to conceal his own chuckle.

“Well, since you asked -- ” Richie begins, smirking, but Eddie throws his hand over his mouth before he can say anything else.

 _“Beep, beep, Richie!”_ he all but shrieks, and only when he thinks Richie will stay quiet does he release him. He should have known better.

“Seriously though,” Richie says almost immediately after Eddie lets him go, a grin stretching wide across his face as he turns to face his blushing boyfriend. “Doesn’t he look so cute like this?” He pinches Eddie’s cheek, and the other boy swats at his hand playfully.

“Don’t touch me,” he says childishly, his face burning.

“Well, _ouch…_ ” Richie pouts. “Whatever happened to _c’mon_ _baby, please --_?” Ben shoves Richie off the bench then, and the others all laugh as Beverly covers her ears immediately.

“I did _not_ need to know that!” she cries, and Eddie pokes her in the side with an almost Trashmouth-like grin of his own.

“Didn’t you get an earful when you found us? Must’ve been scarring…”

“I’ll never be the same.” Beverly deadpans, her hand pressed to her forehead as if she were checking for a fever, and she turns to Kate for solace, “Care to remind me again why we hang out with a group of boys, sweetheart?”

 _“Because,”_ Richie pipes up from the floor just before he gets to his feet to wedge himself between her and Eddie, “you _love_ us, Beverly Marsh - no matter how much you act like you don’t.” And he kisses her cheek, which earns him an eye roll from her, but the smile on her face is a true one.

“ _Unfortunately…_ ” Beverly sighs, grinning at Richie sweetly just as Nick joins the table.

“What have I missed?” he wonders innocently as he settles between Bill and Ben, the latter scooting over to give him more room as he sets his tray down in front of him.

“Oh nothing, just Trashmouth ruining our lunch as per usual,” Ben insists and Richie’s jaw drops.

“I resent that!” he shouts dramatically, sticking his nose in the air. “I’m going to find a _new_ lunch table!”

“Don’t be such a tease, Tozier,” Stanley begs.

“Bye!” Ben adds, waving playfully, and Richie pouts, arms crossed over his chest with a huff before turning into Eddie’s shoulder, mumbling to himself as Eddie pats his head.

“Oh, my little drama queen,” Eddie sighs, but he scratches at Richie’s scalp gently just once, and never long enough to draw unwanted attention from people around them. “You know Ben and Stan are just goofing, right, baby?” he whispers when their friends seem to have drifted off into their own conversations again, and Richie nods against Eddie’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I know,” he promises. “Just gotta play it up, you know me,” and he sends a wink in Eddie’s direction that brings a fresh blush to his cheeks. “But thanks for checking in, cutie - real sweet of you,” Richie says, and Eddie looks down at his lap bashfully before bopping his shoulder against Richie’s.

“Always.”

Richie and Eddie are walking home when Eddie pops the question, feigning nonchalance. “Hey, Richie, do you wanna sleep over tonight?”

“Like - in your _room_?”

“No, in my mom’s room,” Eddie snarks back.

“Well, I’m sure Mrs. K -- ”

“Don’t finish that sentence if you want to stay boyfriends.” Richie snaps his mouth shut, pretending to zip it closed and slipping the fake key into Eddie’s back pocket, where he keeps his hand as they walk. “Anyway, yes, you’d sleep in my room. Maybe even in my bed, if you’re lucky.”

“Damn, I can’t imagine getting _that_ lucky,” Richie coos, all sticky sweet and confectioners sugar, and Eddie sighs, cheeks heating up.

“Yeah, yeah, keep up that sweet talk, mister. You’ve done it a million times before, don’t act so high and mighty. But is it going to be a…” Eddie swings around and stops Richie from walking, glancing up at him through his eyelashes. “...problem for you? Can’t keep your hands to yourself?” Eddie slips his hands into Richie’s own back pockets, glad they have privacy from wandering eyes considering they cut through the woods on their way home today to look at the changing foliage, and the boy groans loudly.

“I cannot,” Richie relents, after staring wide-eyed for a while. “I most certainly cannot.”

Eddie smirks and they continue walking for a while until Richie remembers, all at once, hitting him like a semi-truck, that Eddie usually _sleeps in his underwear_.

He chokes on his spit, taking his hand out of Eddie’s pocket and bracing his hands on his thighs while he coughs.

“Babe! Are you choking? Are you okay?” Eddie asks, concerned, rubbing soothing circles into Richie’s back. Eddie’s touch, while usually comforting, is just sending sparks down his spine right now. Eddie makes a masochist out of him though, so he leans into the touch.

“I’ll be okay as long as you wear some clothes when you sleep.” Eddie gives him a smirk that is so devilish and so playful all at once that Richie actually feels his knees buckle.

“No chance, baby.”

Richie lets out a tiny whimper. Okay, so, ball’s back in Eddie’s court. _Honestly_ , Richie thinks. _Was it ever really in mine to begin with?_

 

They try to make it past Mrs. Kaspbrak with minimal scarring to be talked of, but emotional scarring is a fact of life at this point in the Kaspbrak house. Eddie asks if Richie can sleep over and his mom immediately looks at Richie, narrowing her eyes at the boy. Richie has been on his best behavior around Eddie’s mother since becoming his boyfriend; no more trashmouth remarks, no more sex jokes where she is in earshot. Richie smiles, bright and wide, at Sonia Kaspbrak and after a while, she shrugs.

“Does his mother know?” Richie’s mother works the night shift tonight, and he would be alone anyway.

“I was about to call her, Mrs. K. May I use your phone?” Eddie’s mom gestures to the phone from her place in the living room recliner. Richie calls his mom and has a short conversation; Maggie Tozier is a big fan of Eddie Kaspbrak, knowing how much Eddie keeps her son on the right track, not entirely certain if he and her son are dating or not. But she says yes easily, bidding Richie a good night. Richie smiles while talking to her, soft and fond, and it makes Eddie have to bite back a similar smile of his own. He’s glad to see his boyfriend back on a good foot with his mother for the moment. When he hangs up and tells Mrs. Kaspbrak that his mom said it was okay, she waves him off.

Eddie goes to follow Richie up the stairs, but Sonia tuts.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Eddie closes his eyes and shakes his head, out of his mother’s line of sight, and gives Richie a look of desperation when he opens them. Richie feels powerless; he knows Eddie has a very complicated relationship with his mother. He never wants to get in the middle of things when they’re happening, knowing it would cause a rift between his and Sonia’s already tenuous relationship, but he knows he’s going to have to talk about this with Eddie at some point tonight. Eddie seems just miserable around her and it breaks Richie’s heart to witness it, to know there’s nothing he can do to really help or stop it.

Eddie walks back to the living room. “Yes, Mommy?”

Richie can see through the kitchen archway that Sonia beckons Eddie over for a kiss on the cheek. He gives it to her, but his back is rigid. He looks so uncomfortable, and Richie’s heart gives a painful lurch in his chest, absolutely shattering. “You’re always forgetting lately. I get a kiss when you come home and when you leave the room. Those are the rules.”

Eddie nods. “Sorry, Mommy.” She waves him away as well, turning up the television, and Eddie bolts towards Richie, up the stairs and Eddie closes his bedroom door lightly. He leans against it, shutting his eyes, and Richie doesn’t know what exactly would be helpful for him right now, and he’s not prideful enough to refrain from asking.

“Baby, are you okay? What do you need?” Richie asks quietly from a few paces away. Eddie, without opening his eyes, tosses his arms out straight into the air. Richie immediately crowds his space, taking Eddie’s motion to mean that he needs physical touch from someone who is a safe place to hide. He gathers Eddie up and cradles him against his chest. Eddie noses into the column of Richie’s throat, but it’s not sensual or romantic like it can be sometimes with them. It’s the movement of someone who’s looking for their creature comfort, and Richie is more than happy to give him that, to let him take and take from him until he is left hollow.

Eddie, however, never takes without giving, and he runs his fingers up and down Richie’s spine slowly, trimmed fingernails scratching lightly against the fabric. Richie presses his face into Eddie’s hair and breathes in, kissing the crown of his head.

They stay against the door for ages. They lose track of how long they’re tangled up in one another, before Richie can’t take the silence, can’t take all the questions he has rolling around in his head.

“Eddie darling, do you want to talk about her? Or any of it?” Eddie shrugs.

“I guess I just… I wish my dad were here. I wish the stupid cancer hadn’t taken him and I wish I had memories of him and more than just photographs and stories. I was only five when he died, you know?” Richie nods, remembering Eddie telling him so when they went to visit his grave last spring. “My mom says he was such a kind man, so affectionate and loving. It’s no wonder my mom lost her shit when he died; they were soulmates.” Richie nods, understandingly.

Richie doesn’t think of his own father fondly either, but he does know what it feels like to have a mother who has a dependence. His mother, when she’s not working, is usually drinking. It’s why Richie can slip bottles of jack out of the liquor cabinet and she doesn’t even notice; there’s so many, she thinks she drank it already when she notices something’s gone missing. Richie’s mom’s dependence is alcohol; Eddie’s mom’s dependence is him. Richie can’t even imagine the stress and anxiety that must put him under.

“Do you have photos in here?” Richie implores and Eddie nods, thumbing towards the closet.

“A box in the closet. There’s a scrapbook that my dad made me before he died.” Eddie starts looking shiftily around the room, anywhere but Richie. “Can I… Do you want to see them?”

Richie smiles warmly at him, tucking a strand of hair away from Eddie’s face. “I’d love to, sweetheart.”

Eddie pulls out the photo album and together, they look through photos of Eddie’s family. Sonia Kaspbrak looks nothing like the woman she is now in the photos Richie’s seeing; it’s mind-boggling, to say the least. She’s thin and wispy and… happy. The whole family looks happy. Eddie points out the different things their family did before his father got sick, the traditions they had. The family would always bake a cake for one another on every birthday, and there’s photos of those processes in this book. Sonia would cook a big breakfast every Sunday morning for the family before church.

It’s so intimate and private, Eddie feels as if they’re sharing something big in this room by going through this scrapbook. He’s never showed anyone photographs of his father, not even Beverly. There are no photos of him up around the house; it’s too hard for his mother to see them. So, he keeps the special things that remind him of his father in a box: a stuffed rabbit named Flopsy given to him at birth by his dad, a leather jacket of his father’s that he always wore, his father’s motorcycle helmet, the scrapbook, and a framed photo his mother had professionally taken when Eddie was three of their family.

“I wish I could keep this photo out,” Eddie says, lightly touching the edges of the frame.

“Why don’t you?” Richie asks quietly.

“If mom ever saw it, she’d have my head. She doesn’t even know I have this box. I found it in the basement one day when I was like 12 and I lugged it up here when she was out at the store. I don’t know why she won’t even let _me_ have memories of him around...” Eddie trails off, face souring. “No, I know why. Because she has to control every inch of my life, or else she’ll lose me like she lost him. Well, joke’s on her, I guess, because she truly has no idea who I am due to the cage she tried to lock me in.” Eddie looks up at Richie from the photograph, and his eyes are fervent, fierce, shining with unshed tears. “My dad would’ve loved you.”

It’s such an intense thing for Richie to hear, he almost can’t believe it. Eddie said this to his father’s grave back in the spring, but to hear it said directly to him? It’s almost too much. “He would’ve?” The question comes out thick with emotion.

“Yeah, baby, he would’ve. He was this rocker from the 60s, all Kurt Cobain and hair grease. He didn’t even own a car; he had a motorcycle instead. My mom owned a little Volvo back then, that grey one from the picture where I’m waving from the booster seat? But my dad? No way. He wanted to teach me to ride as soon as I was able. There’s this letter, the one I talked about at the graveyard…” Eddie gets up, searching for it in the box. “A-ha! He wrote me a letter before he died that talked about who he was, who he hoped I’d grow up to be. None of it happened, of course. He wanted me to be successful, happy, free…” Eddie looks up at Richie. “On second thought, maybe it did happen, despite everything.”

“What do you mean?” Richie asks, breathless.

“Well, I mean, look at me. Look at us. He wrote the words _successful, happy and free_. I’ve… Richie, I’ve never been happier than I’m with you.” Eddie takes Richie’s hand as Richie gasps softly, tears in his eyes running freely now. “I’ve never showed any of this stuff to anyone. You’re it. You were always it. When I was thinking of people to go to the graveyard with me that day, you were the only real option. I don’t know if I’m old enough to be successful, but… I’m smart. I study hard and I try. I think that’s all he meant by that. And, around those losers we call friends, I’m free. We’re free. I can’t be free with my mom, but I don’t think I ever was; not since Dad died. But there’s six or seven people in the world we can be our complete and unadulterated selves around. I think that’s an incredible type of freedom that not many people get in this world. We’re pretty lucky, I think, considering.”

“Lucky,” Richie chuckles wetly, wiping the tears from his cheeks. “That’s kind of how I feel, too.”

 

It’s dusk and they’re doing their homework when Eddie pulls out all the stops.

“Is it hot in here? It’s getting kind of hot in here,” he comments lightly, shucking off his sweater. Richie’s eyes are glued to him, but Eddie is still looking at his Algebra textbook. Eddie’s wearing a thin undershirt underneath the sweater and Richie couldn’t tear his gaze away from Eddie’s torso if he tried. Eddie glances over, sees how deeply affected Richie is by just Eddie wearing what he is, and smirks a bit. He honestly wasn’t even trying to pull a move, but he is now.

Eddie starts playing with the hem of his undershirt. “Man, my mom must’ve really cranked the heat.”

“Eddie…” Richie warns, eyes glued to the spot where the strip of skin is exposed.

“Yes, dear?” Eddie asks, a sly grin on his face. Richie gets up from where he’s sitting on the floor and takes a step towards him, but Eddie scoots back against the wall, sitting on his bed. “Ah, ah, no touching. What would my mom think? Just a couple hundred feet away?”

“I don’t care if your damn mom _watches_ , Eddie, I’m going to touch you,” he growls, taking another step forward, before his eyes widen and he stops dead in his tracks. “U-Unless you don’t want me to touch you.”

Eddie’s smile is soft when he looks at Richie, scooting forward, feet now on the floor. “Of course I do, silly. We’re just playing.” He beckons Richie over, patting the spot next to him on the bed. “Now, get over here and take this shirt off me.”

Richie nods violently, rushing over, straddling Eddie’s thighs and then pushing on his shoulders until he’s laying flat on the bed. “That I can do.” He leans down to bring their lips together while his hands gather up the hem of his undershirt, pushing it further up his chest.

Eddie whines when Richie pulls away, but it’s only to lift his shirt over his head and then he’s kissing him again as he throws it to the floor where it lands on their discarded textbooks. Something between a gasp and a whimper sits low in the back of Eddie’s throat, and he knots his fingers in Richie’s curls, pulling the boy flush against his chest.

His nose wrinkles when he feels Richie’s shirt against his skin. “Yeah, that’s gotta go…” he decides breathlessly as he breaks away from Richie’s kiss to ghost his lips along the other boy’s jaw, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of Richie’s shirt. “You and these damn shirts,” Eddie grunts impatiently, and Richie chuckles.

“You watch your mouth - this is thrift store couture at its finest, baby,” Richie snarks, but there’s a wanton glint to his dark eyes as he watches Eddie practically tear his shirt from his shoulders until they’re both lying there, bare-chested and breathing heavily, hands hovering in what little space was left between the two of them. Richie leans closer until that space is completely filled and he kisses him carefully, pressing one of his hands to Eddie’s cheek while his other arm curls around his small waist to bring their bodies even closer. Eddie sucks in a sharp breath at the sensation and Richie can feel the other boy’s hands start to tremble where they holds his shoulder blades, and he leaps back. “You okay, Eds?” he asks, palm still pressed to Eddie’s cheek, and Eddie smiles up at him.

“Yeah, I’m okay…” Eddie insists, reaching up with his own hand to cover Richie’s where it lays against his cheek, and he links their fingers together. “Thank you,” he says quietly, gratefully, and he turns to kiss the palm of Richie’s hand.

“You don’t have to thank me, doll,” Richie reassures, rolling onto his hip so that he’s propped up beside Eddie, his arm resting on the pillow just over Eddie’s head as he shamelessly adjusts himself with his other hand. Before Eddie can even react to that, though, Richie begins playing with the hair that’s sprawled out behind his head before pressing a kiss to Eddie’s forehead, his temple, the bridge of his nose, before finally finding his lips again, and it isn’t urgent, it isn’t hot and heavy and _I want you -_ it’s sweet, it’s tender and soft and _I need you._ Eddie smiles as they separate and he burrows into Richie’s open arms, tucking his head beneath Richie’s chin, and Richie winds both of his arms around him tightly before kissing his hair.

“We still have homework to do…” Eddie trails off after they’ve been lying there in silence for a bit.

Richie groans. “God, babe, way to kill the mood.” But his voice is playful as he sits back up and retrieves his shirt from where Eddie had thrown it on the floor, shrugging it on without bothering to button it up; Eddie, however, doesn’t reach for his shirt.

“It’s still too hot in here - I’m good like this,” he decides as he picks his textbooks up onto his bed and lays across it on his belly, feet up in the air and biting on the end of his pencil.

“I hate you,” Richie says, dropping his head into his hands when Eddie flashes him a grin.

“No, you don’t.”

 

They’ve decided to go to bed, shutting the lights off. After, of course, Eddie shucks his pants off. Richie’s heartbeat upticks at the sight, the casualness of the movement, like he’s done it hundreds of times before in front of Richie. It’s not like he hasn’t — they’ve all gone swimming at the Quarry in their underwear for countless summers, but this is different. The privacy of the moment between them is heavy in the air as Richie smiles at him. Eddie smiles back, crawling under the blankets and tucking his face into the crook of Richie’s neck.

“Do you always sleep in your underwear?” Richie implores curiously. Eddie shrugs, a crease forming in between his eyes.

“Usually. Mom keeps it unnaturally hot in my room so I don’t ‘catch a cold’, and I get warm easily, so not wearing pajamas is easier. I can wear them though if it’s too much,” Eddie says, pulling out of Richie’s grasp. Richie just tightens his hold on Eddie.

“No, it’s okay. Whatever makes you comfortable, yeah?” Eddie smiles, and then it slips off his face again.

“But, I mean, if you’re seriously going to be -- ”

“I promise, darling. I can control myself.” Richie insists, and Eddie smiles again, settling once more into his boyfriend’s waiting arms.

So, controlling himself? Harder than he previously once thought. Especially with Eddie _moving around_ so damn much. The boy is restless before he falls asleep, so he keeps rustling around under the three blankets they have on (insisted by Richie because Eddie needed the window open due to his mother keeping the heat on so high and it’s below freezing outside at night during January in Maine). Richie’s got an arm around Eddie’s waist, curling his hand to the skin of his stomach, and Eddie has his back cradled in the bracket of Richie’s body. It should be a lovely moment, intimate and calming.

It would be, if Eddie would stop _fucking moving_.

“Darling,” Richie grits out, his hand tightening on Eddie’s hip, trying to hold him still when his naked legs tangle with Richie’s and he accidentally grinds backwards in the process. At least, Richie’s mostly certain it’s accidental; the boy has been a rather bit of a tease today. Richie just barely holds in a very lewd noise. “You’ve _got_ to stop fucking fidgeting.”

“I’m not _fidgeting_ ,” Eddie spits. “You’re warm and I’m trying to get closer to you.”

Richie sighs and looks heavenward. “Well, you’re not wearing very many clothes, dear, and your body is simply irresistible when it is _constantly pressing onto my junk_.”

Eddie laughs, the vibrations making their way through Richie’s whole body. “I thought you could control yourself?” Eddie teases, moving his lower half so close they’re practically moulded together.

“Eddie, you’re literally going to kill me if you keep doing this. I’m trying to keep my wits about me and you’re not making it any easier not to jump your bones.” Eddie hums.

“What if I don’t want you to keep your wits about you?” Richie’s whole body heats up and then a voice in the back of his head whispers, _Wait. Communication._

“Angel, could you turn around? We should talk about this and I don’t want to do it while I can’t see you,” Richie says. Eddie groans and buries his head in his hands.

“No, forget I said anything, I’m just gonna go to bed,” Eddie laments.

“Baby, no, c’mon. It’s me, right? We can talk about anything, can’t we?” Richie means it to sound reassuring, but the longer he speaks, the more insecure his voice sounds, wavering a bit at the end. Eddie does end up turning around at that, but only because of the tone in Richie’s voice.

“Yeah, of course we can. I’m just embarrassed,” Eddie whispers, looking down, untangling their legs. Richie draws circles into Eddie’s hip and lets him unbraid them, deciding it’s better to let him do what he needs to do, knowing he’ll come back on his own accord. Eddie doesn’t pull away from the light designs Richie’s drawing on his skin, and Richie takes that to be a good sign.

“There’s no reason to be embarrassed, Eds. What makes you feel embarrassed?”

“I dunno, I guess I just…” Eddie trails off, looking down at his own hands that are making shapes, unmaking them, and then remaking them again: a calming technique he’s taught himself. “I’m unused to this feeling.”

“What feeling?” Richie asks carefully, and Eddie groans.

“Are you gonna make me _say_ it?” Eddie exclaims.

“I don’t want to assume anything on your behalf.” Eddie gives his hands a half smile briefly.

“I want to be with you,” he whispers. Richie can feel his heart stop and then restart in his chest.

“You mean…?”

“I don’t know what I mean,” Eddie sighs. “We’re young. I don’t really know what I want. I don’t know what other kids our age are doing. What…”

“What straight kids are doing,” Richie finishes. Eddie nods miserably.

“I don’t know if it’s any different when you’re a boy and a girl. If it’s easier.” Richie hums.

“It’s probably just different. Different obstacles, different hurdles. Like, for example, a girl wouldn’t be able to sleep over in your room tonight, would she?” Eddie shakes his head. “Right. But, also, society has set out rules and parameters for straight couples. We’re kinda flyin’ blind, here,” Richie says in an old timey Voice, and Eddie smiles at him briefly. Richie’s so deeply glad that the Voices he uses are just a part of their everyday life now, that he can use them and it doesn’t affect Eddie’s disposition negatively anymore. He’s so, so in love.

“Yeah. It’s kind of… scary.” Eddie admits, and Richie nods.

“Are you scared of sex?”

“Well, kind of. It’s dirty. Really dirty. And I don’t even know how we would go about doing it. Like how we’d — or what we’d... I don’t… I mean, I haven’t… I mean, I _have_ , but I haven’t, like…” Eddie stops talking and the silence stretches on until he can’t take it anymore and looks up at Richie who is staring at him incredulously.

“Did you expect me to understand a word of that, doll?” Richie exclaims and Eddie laughs.

“I guess not. It’s hard for me to say the words. I haven’t talked about this with anyone. I’m used to hearing all the masturbation jokes, but not… like... I mean, I don’t tell them,” Eddie says, sighing. Richie narrows his eyes at him.

“Wait. Are you telling me you’ve never jacked off? Tickled your pickle? Beat your m--”

“Okay!” Eddie cuts him off, slapping his chest. “I’ve tried before, but it’s… it got me really freaked out. I had a panic attack the couple of times I tried. It was really intense and I just… It was too much, I guess. I’m sorry if that’s not super sexy.” Eddie shrugs his shoulders and he looks absolutely miserable, and Richie feels fucking awful that he made Eddie feel as if he _needs_ to have sex with him. Richie is barely ready for that himself; they’re 16 years old for shit’s sake. Maybe straight kids are having sex this young, but for all his talk, Richie certainly doesn’t want to. The fact that he may have made Eddie feel pressured in any way makes him question all of his and Eddie’s motives since they entered a physical relationship.

“Oh, no, darling, you -- you don’t need to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable, alright? I’m more than happy with what we’ve been doing. _More_ than happy. You believe me, right?” Richie asks quietly, craning his neck to make eye contact with Eddie who’s looked down at his hands again. Eddie shrugs again, and stays silent. “Have I made you think that I _need_ sex? Or to get off with you at all? I’m perfectly content with kissing you forever. Eddie, I don’t need sex. I need _you_.”

Eddie looks up then and makes full eye contact. “Really?” His voice is barely audible, just his lips moving around the word, but Richie hears the fear in it anyway.

“Really,” he smiles. “We don’t even have to kiss. I just like being with you. Holding you, talking to you, hanging out with you. It’s the best part of my day, seeing you.”

“No, no, we can -- we can kiss. I like kissing. I definitely like kissing,” Eddie assures him, sliding closer to Richie and tangling their legs together again. Richie smiles, glad to have the contact back, and he slides one of his hands in between Eddie’s clasped ones.

“I like kissing, too, Eds, but it’s… I know you’ve got reservations, with your… anxieties…” Richie, the rest of their friends, his Aunt Beatrice and the doctor at the hospital all may know that Eddie has an anxiety disorder less than a psychosomatic asthmatic illness, but Eddie was still less than convinced, even since the doctor told him in no uncertain words that he has a panic disorder. He still has his mother’s voice rolling around in his head. _You’re sick. You’re sick. You’re sick._ It infuriates Richie to know that Eddie’s mother considers him sick from just being who he was; his anxious, homosexual, incredible self. His anxieties and his sexuality are just parts of him, they are not the whole, but his mother’s words have ingrained themselves so deeply into Eddie’s mind that it’s deeply difficult for him to think of himself any other way. Richie knows that he doesn’t consider his sexuality a sickness, and Richie thinks that’s a big enough step for now. They’d tackle the anxiety disorder at a different point.

“Yeah, mouths have the most bacteria living in the human body, and it freaks me out every time I think about it, but, the thing is, I’m starting not to think about it so much,” Eddie says with a slight, considering frown. Richie raises his eyebrows, smiling. That’s another thing about Eddie: the hypochondria. Richie knows that was imposed onto him by his mother, and the more time away from his mother he spends and the more time he spends with his accepting, loving, encouraging friends, the more the supposed hypochondria has seemed to go away.

“Really?”

“Really! I don’t know, maybe it’s that I like kissing so much; the intimacy, the closeness of it. But I’m not thinking about the diseases I could catch from it all. Not as much, anyway. It really helps that you ask permission,” Eddie continues. Richie grins proudly.

“I’m so glad, darling. That’s so good to hear. So, kissing is a go? But nothing else? Even if you’re…” Richie tucks his face closer to Eddie’s, their noses brushing. “...begging for it?”

Richie pulls back with a smirk and Eddie lets out a harsh breath, trying to compose himself. He does his best to clear his head enough to choke out what he needs to say. “Yeah. I guess. For now, at least. While we’re young and I’m still a nervous wreck.”

Richie touches Eddie’s hair, feather-light. “My nervous wreck,” he whispers, closing the gap between their mouths softly, and Eddie can’t imagine having a better boyfriend than Richie Tozier.

 

* * *

 

Jess Tozier is already annoyed as hell. Her boyfriend, Vic Criss, canceled their date for tonight, so she’s stuck at home with her lame brother. He’s upstairs in his room, as he always is lately since that Homecoming Dance debacle. He and Jess haven’t interacted as much after that, which is just fine with her; that night took Jess’ social standing down a peg, making her the laughing stock of the cheerleading squad, and she has to work twice as hard to get solos now at pep rallies and football games. She was even moved down to the bottom of the pyramid, the most horrifying position for a senior cheerleader to be in. Jess has been pissed off for a long time.

So, when she notices her *NSYNC tape is missing, she’s officially had it up to _here_ . She’s certain her twerp of a little brother stole it. He’s always bragging about being ‘more into rock ‘n’ roll than pop’, but she wouldn’t put it past Richie to take it just to annoy her. She barges into his room with a short sigh of “ _Toad!_ ”, but what she sees makes her shut her mouth and stop dead in her tracks.

Her brother, arm around Eddie Kaspbrak, who is spooned into his front, snug and more romantically intimate than anything Jess has ever seen, is dead to the world. They’re loosely holding hands, like they fell asleep that way, and Richie’s other hand is braided in Eddie’s hair, as if he’d been carding his fingers through it before they succumbed to sleep. Eddie sniffs, adjusts in Richie’s arms from the noise, and Jess stands stock-still as he does, but then he eventually settles back into Richie’s arms.

It’s innocent. It’s _kind_. Jess stares at them for a moment, a flare of jealousy going through her like a comet, destructive and wrecking everything in its path; her and Vic have never shared a moment this sweet before. Jess has never seen _anything_ this sweet before except in the romantic comedies she watches with her friends. They look like a TV couple. Jess feels like a voyeur for a sick moment.

And then, she gets an idea.

As she slips out of her brother’s room and into her own, she smirks. This is payback for all the misery Richie has caused her over the past four months. Jess remembers seeing Richie practicing for his _Rocky Horror Picture Show_ performance back in October. She told him that he owed her so that she wouldn’t spill to anyone that he and his friends would be sneaking in underage. She thought it was weird then, that Richie wanted to go to such a risque show. She doesn’t think it’s so weird anymore as she quietly slips back into Richie’s with her polaroid camera.

_Click._

Eddie shifts again, eyebrows creasing in his sleep at the sound and, smirk deepening, she takes the photo and her camera back to her room and shuts Richie’s bedroom door noiselessly. She places the polaroid on her bed and paints her nails a blood red color as she waits to hear noise coming from Richie’s bedroom. It takes about 45 minutes, but eventually, she hears them begin talking and laughing. She can only imagine what’s going on in there, she thinks a bit disgustedly, when there’s a short break in the noise. Then she hears Eddie say goodbye, tread around the room quietly grabbing his things, and leave. Once the front door shuts, Jess, whose smirk has not left her face since she left Richie’s room, blows on her nails once more to ensure they’re dry, grabs the photo and walks up to Richie’s door, knocking primly. She hears Richie laugh from inside.

“Darling, you didn’t forget anything, I sw--” He cuts himself off as he opens the door to see Jess on the other side of the door, eyes wide. “Jess. I-I thought you were out with Vic.”

All she does is raise the photo with two fingers. The photo of Richie and Eddie, so clearly exposing their intimacy and relationship, drains Richie’s face of color, and he immediately reaches for it when he realizes what it is. She pulls it away before he can get to it. “Now, you _really_ owe me, Toad.” And with that, she walks back into her room, shuts her door and locks it.

_Checkmate._

Richie doesn’t have time to react. He runs straight into Jess’ door, crashing into it and jiggling the handle before crashing his fist against the wood over and over again. He has no thoughts running through his head except _Get that photo, I’ve gotta get that photo_. He doesn’t care what happens to him. Jesus, he’s already out to the school -- that photo would absolutely _ruin_ Eddie. He has to get it back. He has to.

“C’mon, Jess,” he cries, voice desperate, edging on angry. “C’mon, no. I’ll do anything, please. Please. No. C’mon.” He doesn’t even know what he’s saying at this point, he’s just blindly pounding on Jess’ door with rage and fear mixed into one. He won’t give up and Jess knows that. He’s never going to give up, not on something like this. The lock clicks and the door opens suddenly. Richie nearly falls in and he sees her roll her eyes before examining her nails. _God, is she some sort of supervillain or something? Bitch,_ Richie thinks sourly, managing to hold his tongue, knowing it would only sink him further into whatever hole he dug himself into to make her do a thing like this.

“God, he’s worth that much to you?” she asks and Richie glares at her.

“I don’t need to prove shit to you.” She smiles at her nails and looks up at him from underneath her eyelashes. _Yep, definitely a supervillain._ The memory of the polaroid is still fresh in their heads.

“Oh, I think you do.”

“Jess, get rid of that. Please. I don’t give a fuck what you have on me, the whole school already knows about me, but you -- you _can’t_ do that to him.” Jess arches a brow, dropping her hand and raising her head to smile up at him condescendingly. She may be four inches shorter than him, but Richie has never felt smaller, not even when he was faced with his father for the first time in nine years last Thanksgiving.

“Aw. That’s sweet, Toad. If only he actually cared about you. He wouldn’t hide you if he did.”

Richie closes his eyes and breathes out, pushing away his insecurities. He can’t let Jess see him crumble. Not now. “Give it to me, Jess.” He makes his voice as filled with authority as he can, but it’s no match for her casual callousness.

“Why, so you can jack off over it?” Richie scoffs, rolling his eyes, not even deigning to give her a response to that. “No. I think I’ll keep it. It’ll look nice in the yearbook, I think. I’m on the committee this year, you know. Maybe in the Homecoming section. You ruined that night, anyway.”

Richie’s heart drops through the floor and his blood runs cold. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I think I would,” she laughs, stepping back into her room. He takes a desperate step forward to follow her, but before she slams the door shut, he puts a hand on it, stopping it in its tracks.

“Jess, why are you doing this?” he shouts. He hears her laugh on the other side of the door and even though he can’t see her through the crack, he knows she looks like the evil witch he always drew her as in his drawings of his family as a kid after their dad left and she started blaming him for anything she could.

“You break my stuff, I break yours,” is her simple answer as she shuts the door in his face and he hears it click before he can even get his hands on the knob.

“What does that mean, Jess? _Jess!_ ” he screams, pounding on the door.

All Jess responds with through the closed door is, “Homecoming.”

Richie’s blood runs cold. That’s what this is about? All this, because Richie _came out to the school?_ Jess is fucking nuts. She’s out of her mind. She’s cruel, she’s evil, she’s… What if she’s _right?_

Richie runs into his room, locks his door more out of fear than habit or necessity, and scavenges his room for the phone. He finds it on his bookcase, and as soon as his hand makes contact with it, his fingers are immediately pushing the familiar numbers of Eddie’s landline.

Eddie answers after four rings with laughter in his voice. “Hello?”

“Hi,” Richie says, sucking in a greedy breath. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to breath correctly again.

“Rich, I _just_ left -- ” But then he hears Richie whimper.

“Eds…” Eddie has never heard Richie sound so small in his life. Richie Tozier is larger than life itself, he’s the biggest thing in every room, and right now he sounds as if all the life has been stomped out of him, just from two choked out words over the phone.

Suddenly, Richie is gripped with fear. She could call anyone. As soon as Richie is off the phone, Jess could tell anyone in the school that Eddie and him are in a relationship, that Eddie is gay. He knows they’d all believe her. Richie begins hyperventilating at the thought, his sister’s words on a loudspeaker in his head: _he wouldn’t hide you if he did, he wouldn’t hide you if he did, he wouldn’t hide you if he did._ He’s so scared, his breath is coming quicker and quicker, and he’s certain now, in some distant part of him, that he’s probably having a panic attack. He’s rocking back and forth where he’s sitting on his bed, voice choked. Eddie is so infrequently on this end of the situation that he barely knows what to do, isn’t even certain that what’s happening is a panic attack itself, so he begins babbling.

“Richie, what’s wrong? Can you talk? Are you hurt?” Eddie remembers once that Richie said he liked hearing his voice and hoping just listening to him will help. Richie is blinking away tears that are rolling down his face, crying openly now, terrified that Jess is right, that Eddie is hiding him away, that he’s ashamed of him. But Eddie’s heart is breaking on the other end, completely in the dark. “Angel, I’m here. I’m right here.”

“Come back,” Richie chokes out. “Please…” Eddie jumps up from the phone in the hallway immediately, getting out a piece of paper and scrawling out a note of where he went for his mother.

“Okay, baby - I’m coming. Just breathe, I’ll be right there, but I have to hang up, okay?”

“ _No!_ ” Richie shouts, voice wet with tears. “You can’t. You can’t hang up. She’ll call everyone. She’ll call the football team and the cheerleaders and she’ll...” Eddie waits for Richie to continue, but he never does, simply hyperventilating into the receiver.

“Richie, honey, who will call?”

“ _Jess_ ,” Richie sobs. “Jess, she’ll… I’m so scared.” Eddie’s blood boils at the thought of Jess doing something to hurt Richie, but he pushes that emotion on the back burner for a moment.

“Angel, Jess can’t hurt you, okay? I won’t let her.” Richie lets out a loud sob and says something unintelligible, and Eddie coos. “I’ll be over as fast as humanly possible and we’ll figure it out together, alright?”

“Eddie?” Richie whispers. Eddie hums. “I -- ” He has enough wherewithal, coming down from his panic attack, not to say exactly what he feels in that moment, so he just sighs, eyes slipping shut as he feels his heart rate begin to slow at the thought of Eddie coming back. He decides to think it instead, as loudly and clearly as his brain will allow in his current state. _I love you._ “Thank you.”

“I’m coming back, Richie. I promise. I’ll be right there.” Eddie waits for Richie to hang up first before scribbling out a note and bounding out his front door without his backpack or his inhaler. _Mom can get fucked if she’s pissed_ , he thinks. _I don’t need it and Richie needs_ me _. That’s more important._ He mounts his bike ungracefully and begins speeding down his street. Richie gets up and unlocks his door before sitting back on his bed and letting out a quiet whimper.

Once Eddie gets to the Tozier’s house, he doesn’t even wait for Richie to let him in, just goes right inside as soon as he gets there. He bolts up the steps, sending a glare to Jess’ closed door as he passes it, and into Richie’s bedroom. He finds his boyfriend shaking on his bed, rocking back and forth with his head between his knees. When Eddie closes the door behind him sharply, Richie looks up to find Eddie already in front of him, hands hovering around Richie, unsure of what to do, what form of comfort Richie needs. Richie lets out a high whine, looking at the door.

“Lock. Lock it.” Eddie looks at him a bit confusedly before doing as he’s told. Richie lets out a sigh when he hears the click and then throws his arms out, eyes desperately locked on Eddie. _Okay. Physical contact is a go_ , Eddie thinks, rushing to the side of Richie’s bed as Richie throws his arms around his neck, pitching himself into Eddie’s embrace.

He rubs Richie’s back as Richie sobs into Eddie’s neck, blubbering nonsense. Eddie lets him, cooing as he runs a hand through Richie’s curls, never shushing him or telling him to quiet down. _Let Jess hear him_ , he thinks. _Whatever she did, she deserves to hear what she did to him._

Eventually, Richie lets out a whine and chokes out what he’s most afraid of at the moment. “Are you ashamed of me?”

Eddie’s blood goes cold. “What?” he gasps, mind racing. When he’d left Richie, he was perfectly fine - smiling, happy and loose-limbed from their nap. Where did this _come_ from? “Angel, why would you think that?”

“Are you?” Richie asks again desperately, eyes wild, his hands shaking where they’re clinging to Eddie’s shirt. _He wouldn’t hide you if he did._

“ _No,_ ” Eddie swears, and there’s so much clarity in his voice that Richie begins trembling. “God, baby, no. Sometimes you say stuff that makes me a little embarrassed, but not _of_ you. Never of you. I know you’re just playing around and I love y-- I love that you do that… I’m not ashamed of you, angel. I could never be ashamed of you…”

Richie’s mother is embarrassed of him, his sister is embarrassed of him, his father, his whole family, everyone he lives with. But not his partner. Not his friends. His heart rate slows a bit as that thought quells his nerves. The question at hand as Richie’s sobs quiet and he presses his face into Eddie’s chest though is: does he tell Eddie what brought this insecurity on or not? And he immediately decides not to lie. He doesn’t see the point in it; this is Eddie.

“Jess found us sleeping. She took a picture and she won’t give it back. She says she’s gonna put it in the yearbook. I tried to get it back, Eddie, I did, I swear. I would never let her do that bullshit laying down, you have to believe me...” Richie’s voice gets more and more insistent as he speaks and Eddie places a hand on the back of his skull, quieting him.

“I believe you,” Eddie says, voice iron and steel. Eddie can’t even be angry about the picture; he feels a brief flicker of fear, dread over what that picture could do to his life, but then Richie keeps talking.

“She said she thinks you wouldn’t hide me if you weren’t ashamed of me,” Richie says, voice timid and small as he speaks into Eddie’s shirt. Eddie’s head snaps toward the door. He wants blood. He wants _revenge_. Resorting Richie Tozier, a loving and kind, gentle-hearted man, to a blubbering mess and plucking at the heartstrings of his insecurities, going after his closeted boyfriend who she doesn’t even _know_ just to hurt him - she’s a monster, Eddie decides. And if there’s one thing his comic books have taught him, it’s that monsters must be destroyed.

He takes Richie’s face in his hands and looks at him closely. He looks at everything he’s about to risk his entire future for. He leans up and kisses Richie softly on the forehead before letting go and unlocking Richie’s door. He walks right up to Jess’ pink-painted wooden door and pounds on it three times with the side of his fist. He doesn’t look behind him to see if Richie has followed - he’s sure he has. She hears Jess laugh.

“Hold on, Trish,” she says from inside. Eddie hears her pad over to the door and the lock clicks before it swings open. Jess Tozier stands there, hand on her hip, the other muting the phone with her shoulder. She looks at Eddie expectantly, but before she can even get a word in edgewise, he barges into her room, ignoring her squawks of protest. “Trish, I gotta go,” she says into the receiver as Eddie looks around before she hangs up the phone and throws it on the bed. She snorts. “If you’re looking for the photo, Kaspbrak -- ”

“Shut up, Jess,” he says, voice ice cold. He doesn’t turn around as he searches her bookcase.

“You’ll never find it,” she sings. Richie stands in the doorway, dumbfounded as he watches the scene unfold. He’s almost certain this is the first time his older sister and his boyfriend have interacted. A younger version of himself wishes it could’ve been under better circumstances. He remembers fantasizing about a moment similar to this - Eddie meeting his family. Back then, it was the idea that his best friend would come over and they’d all have dinner together. They’d laugh and talk and Richie would be on his best behavior. Nothing would go wrong, nothing would be Richie’s fault. Then, it morphed into something more romantic, a moment they’d always remember. As it is now, Eddie ignores her as he moves to her desk. Richie feels his heart sink at the realization that his family is so fundamentally broken that they’ll never get that moment. Eddie finds what he was looking for, grabbing her polaroid camera and walking out with it in one hand and Richie’s forearm in the other.

“Hey!” she cries. “Get back here with that! That is private property!” Eddie stalks back into Richie’s room, Richie stumbling behind him and Jess hot on their heels, murder in her eyes. She watches as Eddie sits Richie down on the bed, plops down beside him, grabs his chin and kisses him. _Hard._ It’s a bruising kiss, one that doesn’t look fun or sexy from where Jess is standing, but they both close their eyes, perhaps more out of instinct on Richie’s part. Eddie raises her polaroid camera and points the lens towards them.

_Click._

Eddie pulls away from Richie who is breathing hard, staring at Eddie, astonished. Eddie throws the picture at Jess’ feet, not even waiting for it to develop, and tosses the camera at her. She fumbles with it, but does ultimately catch it. She’s a cheerleader - she’s never dropped anything important. Jess has the flash of a memory, when Richie was an infant and she would demand to hold him at any chance she got. She loved him. She loved that little colicky kid with all her heart. She knows, logically, she still loves him, buried in the parts of her she has to hide to still be the person she has chosen to become; love, the kind of love she has for her brother, isn’t a useful emotion to have, especially in the quantities she feels it in. So she’s buried it, stifled it as much as love can be stifled. Jess will never give up on her aspirations - she’s far too stubborn for that. She realizes that she sacrificed Richie’s feelings as a result of chasing her dreams, and she knows she’d hate herself for it if she thought about it for long enough. So she doesn’t. It keeps her heart safe and her dreams safer. She plays the part of a bully now. It’s easier than admitting she doesn’t know who she is if she isn’t playing a part.

“How’s that for blackmail, Jess? That a good enough angle for you, or do you need another for the yearbook?” Eddie asks with a cocky jaunt to his words, an eyebrow raised and his hip popping. Richie is still looking at him like he’s the bravest person he’s ever met. If Jess were to assess the situation from an unbiased angle, she knows she’d be forced to agree. She looks between them. The way Richie’s looking at Eddie looks far more intimate than even the sleeping had. She feels again like a voyeur again, a stranger in her own brother’s room. This enrages her - not only does she know she’s been beat, but there was a time when Jess and Richie were absolutely inseparable. Jess protected Richie and now Eddie protects him. She is a useless figure in her brother’s life now. She only causes pain. She figures she might as well lean into it as she lets out a shriek that they all feel in their bones. She looks at the photo on the ground and briefly considers leaving it before realizing that would be admitting defeat. Even when backed into the corner of her own cruelty, Jessica Tozier will go down fighting. She grabs the photo at her feet and slams the door shut.

Richie looks at Eddie, stars in his eyes. “You…”

“You should probably tell your mother. You know, before Jess does,” Eddie points out. Richie bobs his head in agreement as if it’s on a mechanical spring.

“Yeah. Yeah, I will tonight. _Baby…_ ” Richie breathes, throwing his arms around Eddie’s shoulders, knocking him sideways from the force of it. Eddie laughs and winds his arms around Richie’s neck. “I’m so proud of you,” Richie says into Eddie’s neck.

“I don’t think anyone’s more proud than me of you,” Eddie responds. Richie pulls back and smiles at him, blinking back tears.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Later that night, Eddie gets a call from an overexcited Richie, rambling about his conversation with his mother. Eddie gets from Richie that she was horrifically indifferent, to the point where Eddie is wiping tears away by the end of Richie’s diatribe. He clears his throat, puts on a smile and tells him how proud he is of him. Over and over, he’s proud of him. Never once that he’s glad, because Eddie doesn’t like to lie unless he needs to, and he especially doesn’t like to lie to Richie. But he’s so _sad_.

It’s beyond not caring that Richie is gay. It’s not caring about _Richie._ She couldn’t even fake enthusiasm for fifteen minutes while her son told her the most important information about himself he has yet to share with her.

Richie is not tuning into it being neglectful because she’s not outwardly against it. Eddie slips though and, by instinct more than anything, asks him if he’s okay. His voice is smooth and low the way it gets when Richie is inconsolable. Richie can almost feel Eddie smoothing his hand over his hair, the way he does when paired with that tone. Richie’s eyebrows screw in.

“But it was okay, right? She doesn’t hate me.” And Eddie does start to cry at that. He makes sure he does so silently. He puts on a fake smile even though Richie can’t see him so that his voice sounds positive and clears his throat.

“Oh, baby. Of course she doesn’t hate you. You’re her son, she doesn’t hate you.” Richie sighs.

“That’s not contingent with this kind of news, though. You don’t think she… You don’t think she was _lying_ do you?” His voice is a harsh whisper through the receiver, and Eddie screws his eyes shut, pulling the phone away from his mouth and blowing out an unsteady breath, trying desperately to ground himself.

“I don’t know, baby. I hope not.” It’s the best thing he can come up with, the closest to the truth. Richie sniffs, and Eddie’s whole heart fissures and breaks in half.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Richie asks hopefully, his voice sad.

“Always, angel.” _Angel._ He only calls him that when something is really wrong, like he did earlier. Richie isn’t even sure Eddie knows that he does it, just a knee-jerk reaction to Richie’s sadness, but it’s always the pet name that comes out when Richie’s hurting. A silent tear rolls down Richie’s cheek.

“Bye, Eds,” Richie says, trying to keep the thickness out of his voice. He’s certain he fails when he hears the tragedy in Eddie’s reply.

“Bye, baby.”

Neither of them sleep well that night.


	9. Winter, 1992 (Part Two)

“Okay, Dad,” Stanley whispers to himself as he stands on the top step of the staircase, waiting to descend them and have what he assumes will be the hardest conversation he’s yet to have in his life. “You know how much I love you and how dedicated I am to our religion. But there’s something I have to tell you… No, no… Dad, you know how dedicated I am to our religion, but there’s something I have known about myself for a long time that I feel you should know. Yes! Yes, perfect. I’m gay. No, no, don’t say it outright, don’t scare him with it. It’s too much too soon, I have to ease him into it. Say I have a boyfriend instead. I have a boyfriend. I have a boyfriend. I -- ”

“Stanley, who are you talking to?” his father asks from the bottom of the stairs, and it sounds like an admonishment rather than a question. _Now or never, Stan._

“Hi, Dad,” Stanley greets, attempting to keep his voice mild. “No one, I just stubbed my toe, was talking about how we have to get this staircase releveled. Weren’t you talking about that the other day?”

“Oh, yes, I was. Come down here, I have something to discuss with you.”

“Me as well, Dad,” Stanley says, descending the stairs, and the moment he hits the bottom, his father starts talking again, steamrolling Stanley’s chance to bring up what he has needed to talk to him about for months, possibly years.

“You’re aware Delilah from Temple is interested in you, yes?” Stanley blinks at his father, his head spinning.

“...Delilah? Who’s Delilah?”

“You know, with the long blonde hair? She’s quite the looker, son. She has a beautiful voice when we sing in Temple. She seems like a perfect match for you. I think you’d like her,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips, and Stanley quirks his eyebrows at him.

“What makes you think that? What else do you know about her, Dad? What’s her personality like?”

“Oh, she’s very fun. Well, her father says she’s fun. He also says she’s got straight A’s in school and that she’s…” As his father goes on about this so-called Delilah, Stanley grows more and more uncomfortable. He’s visibly picking at the skin around his fingers, a tic he’s developed over the years that comes out when he gets anxious, trying to smooth them out. He’s close to crying, he just wants his father to _stop_ , and so, he snaps.

“I’m already seeing someone,” he blurts out, his meticulously crafted speech flying out the window. His father raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“What? Who? Why haven’t I met her yet?”

“Dad, you have met -- ”

“What - is - Stanley, please tell me you’re not dating that Marsh girl. Son, honestly, she’s fine as a pal, but people around town talk. A man in my position hears things, and —”

“Dad, _no_ , I’m not dating Beverly,” Stanley insists, voice pleading and sad. “And don’t talk about her like that, please. Nothing the people in town say about her is true, I’ve told you that a thousand times. She’s one of my best friends and I don’t want you believing things like that about her.”

His father rolls his eyes, bored. “Well, out with it, then. Who is she?”

Stan takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, feeling the way his chest expands and falls, the way his button down feels starchy and clean on his skin, the way the air whistles through his lips. He concentrates on everything except the words coming out of his mouth. His voice is just audible enough to be heard when he says, “I have a boyfriend, actually.”

He hates that his father makes him sound so ashamed when he knows that he isn’t. He’s not ashamed of Bill and he hasn’t been ashamed of himself for so long, but just standing in front of his father almost tricks his brain enough to get himself to revert back to that way of thinking, that mindset, the person he was before the Losers’ Club, before loving Bill. He desperately and with every inch of himself wishes Bill was there with him now to remind him how right they are together and how this is worth the risk.

He looks up at his father and even though he has absorbed the information, his facial expression doesn’t change. It’s still flat and inscrutable. He doesn’t yell, he doesn’t argue, he just begins pacing and repeating, over and over, “You have to go. You have to go.”

The same phrase repeats its way into Stanley’s soul and rots there until he decides, _no_ , he’s not going to stand for this. He’s going to _fight_. “What do you mean go?”

“We have to send you somewhere where they can fix this. I’ll make the arrangements.” This is both of their worst nightmares.

“No! No!” Stanley wails. “You’re not going to treat me like I’m a prisoner! Like I’m sick! You’re not going to treat me like the fucking _Nazis_ treated us, Dad! There’s nothing wrong with me! You can’t do this! You can’t!”

“It’s what must be done, Stanley, you know this.” His voice is grave and serious, his mouth set in a firm line, like his opinion on the matter won’t budge, but Donald Uris has never backed down from a fight in his life and he’s not about to start now. Not when his entire future happiness is on the line.

“Dad, Israelis are viewing homosexuality in a more positive light! They don’t see us as ‘criminals’ or ‘perverts’ anymore!” Stanley cries.

“The people at the synagogue--”

“Dad, this isn’t about other people!” Stanley screams, body shaking with anger. “This is about me! This is about you and me!”

And then, the front door opens. Robin Uris comes inside, groceries in hand, and his father storms over to her before Stanley can get a word in edgewise to her.

“Stanley’s _gay_ , Robin. We have to send him to a correctional facility, we have to,” he rambles, following her to the kitchen, Stanley hot on their heels. “I’ll find one with a Jewish program. Conversion therapy, you’ve heard of it, right? It’s perfect for Stanley’s situation, I’m sure of it.”

She allows him to finish before hooking the bananas up in their rightful place. She slowly turns to Donald and says, “You would leave before he does.” She lets that sentence sit in the air, both men’s eyes widening before continuing. “Stanley is not going anywhere. If this is something you cannot accept, then Stanley and I are leaving. Both of us.”

Donald stares at her for a long time before hanging his head while Stanley watches on in horror. “I can’t. I can’t accept it, Robin. I’m an Orthodox Jewish Rabbi. What will people think?”

She turns around to tend to the groceries again and says, with her back to them both, “What will people think when you wife and son leave you?”

Both father and son look, shocked, at her turned back, and let out a whisper that changes everything for the three of them and their family. “...When?”

Stanley doesn't know what to do, and when Stanley doesn't know what to do, he does what any other member of the group would: he calls Bill. As soon as he opens his bedroom door, Bambino all but barrels into his calves, still whining as he trots after him slowly while Stanley heads immediately for the phone on his bedside table.

His knees are shaking as he settles down on the corner of his bed, dialing the telephone number he memorized back in kindergarten, the first one he learned after his own, and when Terri Denbrough answers the call, Stanley swallows the lump in his throat long enough to speak to Bill’s mother without worrying her. He calmly asks if Bill could come to the phone while he pats Bambino’s head mindlessly, tugging on his ears every now and again. The dog’s head is resting on Stanley’s knee, his tail wagging slowly, big brown eyes peering up at his owner as Stanley fights to remain whole, grappling at the pieces that his father had tried to chip away at, that Donald has been trying to chip away at for years. Bambino lifts one of his paws to swat gently at Stanley’s arm, and Stanley leans down to kiss the top of the dog’s head just as he hears a soft voice, his favorite voice in the world come through the telephone pressed to his ear.

“Hi, doll -- everyth-thing okay?” Bill asks carefully, and that is when Stanley begins to cry. He sucks in a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes closed in a desperate attempt to force the tears gathering at his lashes to disappear, but that only sets them loose to roll down his cheeks and onto Bambino’s nose, whose head is now completely upright and looking at Stanley, small whines sounding from the back of his throat again.

“I messed up -- I -- I had it all planned out, but I -- I messed it up, Bill --” Stanley sobs into the phone, his words so mangled it would be difficult for anybody else to understand him, anybody who wasn’t Bill. “I messed up a-and -- and now he -- he --”

“What did you m-m-mess up, baby?”” Bill tries gently, but he isn’t met with much more than a wail from his boyfriend; he can hear Bambino crying in the background too, and he feels his stomach churn uneasily. “You’re at home st-still right? Do you want me to come g-get you -- ?”

 _“No!”_ Stanley yelps. “No, I -- it’s not -- he -- c-can you meet me at the -- at the sandlot?”

“Of course I can, honey -- I’ll b-be right there, I p-promise,” Bill answers quickly, but before he can hang up the phone, he hears Stanley sniffle and feels his heart break.

“Billy?” he whimpers, sounding small.

“Yes, baby?”

“I w-want the others there, too,” Stanley whispers, and Bill knows that he means the seven of them, the Losers, nothing more. “It’s -- it’s important and -- and I want -- I want everybody to -- to be there and -- ” he’s starting to get worked up again, his voice getting more hysterical, and Bill shushes him gently.

“I’ll m-make sure everyb-body comes, honey,” Bill coos, and Stanley instantly feels calmer just at the thought alone, of being surrounded by his friends, his friends who love and accept him. “I’ll see you in a f-f-few minutes, okay?”

Stanley sniffles again. “Okay…”

If somebody were to ask Stanley years from now exactly how he managed to get out of his house undetected by his father after everything had come to a boil between him and his parents, Stanley honestly wouldn’t remember. It is almost as if he’s having an out of body experience when he hangs the telephone up and gets once more to his feet, patting Bambino on the head twice. He tells the dog in a voice that doesn’t feel like his own that he’ll be back in a little while before throwing a change of clothes, socks, and his toothbrush into a duffel-bag and tossing it on his shoulder as he leaves the room, closing the door behind him. He registers the sound of Bambino scratching at the bottom of his door, hears him whining sadly, but his legs are pulling him forward, down the flight of stairs and into the living room. Stanley peers cautiously around the seemingly empty space, his nerves perpetually on edge until he can pinpoint his father’s location, but the man is nowhere to be found.

Robin Uris is at the kitchen counter, one hand curled around its edge and the other pressed to her chest, clutching the tiny Star of David necklace that her son had gotten her when he was nine years old; she twirls the stone at its center - a ruby, the birthstone she and her son share - and it catches the late afternoon sun as it pours in through the sliding glass doors that lead into the backyard. She looks up when she hears Stanley come down the steps and she looks crestfallen to find tear tracks staining his face.

“Where’s Dad?” Stanley croaks, and his mother blinks away her tears before they can overwhelm her.

“Nevermind that, sweetheart,” she insists, shaking her head. “I’m taking care of this, Stanley. He’s not going to be able to hurt you, not ever again.” She notices for the first time that he’s carrying an overnight bag on his shoulder. “Are you going to your friends’ tonight?”

“I-I might stay over at Bill’s, but -- ” he feels a sudden rush of guilt, of responsibility, of shame at how quickly he was about to leave his mother to deal with his father all on her own. “Mama, if you need me to come home, I can -- ”

“No, no, no, Stanley,” Robin Uris shakes her head again. “You go. Be with your friends. It’s not your job to look after me.”

“Yeah, it is, Mama…” Stanley whispers, reaching for her hand. She squeezes his fingers and brings their clasped hands to her lips to kiss his knuckles.

“Your father has never raised a hand to me in the thirty years we’ve been married -- and if he knows what’s good for him, he isn’t about to start now,” she cautions. “Go on now, I want you to spend time with your friends while I make the arrangements. I… I don’t know where we’re going to go, sweetheart, but I promise to try as best I can to keep you in the same school district.”

Stanley wants suddenly to drop through the floor beneath his feet, to disappear altogether. He hadn’t even considered that they might move far enough away that he would need to switch schools. What if they move completely out of Derry? Out of _Maine_? What if all of his friends forget about him, too busy with their own lives to bother keeping up with his, to make long-distance trips to see him at all? And what about Bill? Would Bill be up for a long distance relationship? The thought of breaking up with him almost makes Stanley heave up his lunch, but he simply nods at his mother, avoiding her piercing, worrisome gaze by keeping his nose to the ground. He kisses the crown of her head and hugs her to his chest with one arm.

“Love you,” he says quietly.

“And I you, my sweet boy,” she replies as she watches him head to the door.

“Mama?” he asks, turning back, his hand on the doorknob as he hovers there, one foot still inside the house. “Can you -- please don’t -- ”

“I know,” she nods. “I won’t tell him where you’ve gone.”

 

Bill is sitting cross-legged on the trunk of his car where he’s parked it near the opening of the fence that wraps around the sandlot; he keeps looking up and down the road, waiting to either see Richie roll up with everybody in the bed of his truck or to spot Stanley walking up the road first. He’s expecting his boyfriend to arrive first, due to the fact that Richie has to pick the others up from their homes and none of them live in exactly the same area, especially Mike; however, with Richie’s track record, he might come peeling into the parking-lot any second in that death trap of his. When Bill had called Richie and asked him to round up the crew, Richie agreed without a moment’s hesitation, knowing just by Bill’s tone and the intense stutter in his voice that the last thing he needed to do was waste time on a phone call when he should be getting to Stanley.

Bill uncuffs the legs of his jeans for the 22nd time since he’s been sitting there and looks up sharply at the sound of heavy footfalls to see Stanley running towards him, and Bill slides down off of his car just as the other boy reaches him and throws his arms around Bill’s shoulders, nearly knocking him backwards into the trunk. Bill’s arms find their way around Stanley’s waist and he just holds him as he feels tears on his shoulder. Stanley is trembling and muttering something into Bill’s neck that he can’t quite make out.

“What’s happened, honey?” he asks gently, and Stanley whimpers, clinging to him even more. He raises one of his hands to stroke Stanley’s damp cheek, and he kisses his brow. “Hey,” he coos when Stanley shakes his head, refusing to speak, and Bill pulls back slightly to put their foreheads together, tearing up when he sees just how distraught his boyfriend really looks. “You’re o-okay, baby. Look at me, I’m r-r-right here…” Bill whispers gently, kissing the space between his eyebrows. “Wh-What’s got you so upset, hm? Talk to me…”

“I can’t -- I can’t lose you, Billy,” Stanley chokes out and Bill looks even more bewildered.

“Lose me? Honey, wh-wh-who says you’re gonna l-lose me? I’m right here…” Bill insists, squeezing Stanley to his chest again. “I’m right here…”

“I told my dad, Bill…” Stanley cries, and he feels Bill go rigid in his arms. “I t-told my dad and -- and he -- he -- ” Stanley’s breath catches in his throat and Bill rubs his back slowly, leaving soft kisses in his curls. “He wants to send me away.” Bill’s blood runs cold. _Oh._

“N-No, he c-c-c- _can’t_ d-d-do that,” Bill sputters, shaking now too as a single tear rolls down his cheek, and they both tighten their holds on the other then, unwilling to allow even a fraction of space between them, jarred by the thought of any distance at all. “H-H-He _can’t_ \-- Stanley -- ”

“My mom says we’ll leave him,” Stanley declares in a quiet voice. Bill lets out a breath, ruffling the other boy’s hair slightly, and he closes his eyes.

“You’re going to leave your d-d-dad?” he whispers, and Stanley nods. “I g-g-guess that tells me how your mom reacted...” Stanley trembles in his arms and Bill hugs him close. “It’s going to be okay, honey…”

“I don’t know where we’re going to go, Bill,” Stanley whimpers. “I might have to go to a different school than you and everyone else… We could move out of the state,” he whispers this last part, terrified that saying it out loud might make it a reality, and Bill feels his hands start to tremble where they’re resting on his boyfriend’s hips. “Mom says she’s trying to find somewhere in Derry but… Billy, what’s gonna happen if I - if I move away? I don’t want to move away from everyone,” Stanley cries, and Bill cries too, unsure for the first time in his life as to what to say to calm the other boy down. “I don’t want to move away from _you_ … I can’t - I _can’t_ lose you -- ” Bill can hear the fear in the boy’s voice, can hear how desperately he needs somebody to tell him that he isn’t about to be ripped away from everyone and everything he’s ever known, but Bill cannot guarantee that and he won’t lie to him either; he will, however, comfort him.

“Honey, look at me,” Bill coos, placing his hands on either side of Stanley’s face and lifting it up until their eyes meet. He strokes his thumb along Stanley’s cheekbone, clearing the tears away that had collected there, and he takes a deep breath. “I d-don’t know what’s going to happen,” he admits, and Stanley lets out a shuddering gasp, his eyes closing quickly as a fresh wave of tears overpowers him. “Hey, hey, no - baby, look at me, p-please,” Bill begs, brushing his thumb over Stanley’s lower lip, and Stanley opens his eyes, blinking blearily. “I d-don’t know what’s going to happen, but I _do_ know one thing,” he puts his forehead against Stanley’s and looks directly into his eyes. “I am proud of you.” He says this slowly, pushing his stutter to the back of his mind, wanting desperately to overcome it even for this one moment, to make sure that Stanley knows he means this without an ounce of hesitation. “You hear me? I am _so_ p-proud of you, Stanley… You told your _dad…_ ” Bill breathes, and Stanley’s frown deepens.

“I - I can’t stop thinking about how it - it might have gone better if I’d just told him I was gay without throwing an already existing relationship into it… Not that - not that I don’t want him to know about you, angel, I just -- God, I feel like I fucked everything up. I had this perfect speech and I just… I fucking messed it all up -- ”

 _“Stanley,”_ Bill sighs, twisting his fingers in the other boy’s curls. “Honey, please don’t think I’m being h-h-hurtful here, but your d-dad was gonna react that way regardless of how he w-was told…” Stanley looks at his toes but he nods, knowing that what Bill says is true. “B-But that doesn’t make you responsible for his r-r-r-reaction - only he is responsible for th-th-that… There’s no right way to come out, honey… ”

Stanley sniffles. “You sound like Bev…”

“I think we a-a-all should listen to her some more…” Bill chuckles, relieved to see the beginnings of a smile on his boyfriend’s face, and he draws him closer. “A-And hey -  one more thing…” he says, tilting his chin upward. “I don’t care wh-wh-where you move to - you are _never_ going to lose me, understand?” Bill swears, their faces so close together that their lips are a breath away from touching. “C’mere,” he whispers, bringing Stanley’s face just that little bit closer to fit their lips together in a slow kiss, still needing to stretch a bit on his toes because of the other boy’s height.

Stanley sighs, dropping his hands to Bill’s waist, and he lifts him up to where he’s perched on the trunk of his car and doesn’t have to crane his neck so much. Bill hums against his lips, wrapping his legs around Stanley’s midsection to pull him further into his space, and Stanley isn’t complaining one bit. He will never object to being closer to Bill, to being in his arms and being swathed in the sort of comfort that it seems only Bill Denbrough is capable of, the kind of warmth you feel when you’re in a room full of people who love you. _Love,_ Stanley thinks, and then the word is whirling around his head, invading every thought, swallowing him whole. _Love._ His heart pounds in his chest. He laughs as they kiss and when he feels the corners of Bill’s mouth curve upward in a delicate smile, he thinks nothing has ever made as much sense to him as being in love with Bill Denbrough.

“I love you...” he whispers when they break apart for a moment, and Bill’s eyes widen.

“Y-Y-You what?” Bill squeaks, his cheeks flushed as he stares in Stanley’s glistening eyes.

“I love you,” Stanley repeats firmly, his hold on Bill’s sides tightening when he feels his hands start to shake. “I love you so much, Bill. It kinda feels like I always have.” He brings one of his hands up to cup Bill’s cheek, but just as Bill opens his mouth to speak, they hear the tell-tale sputtering of Richie’s truck as it rounds the corner that will bring the rest of them to the sandlot.

Both boys look up and can see Mike, Ben, and Beverly already leaping out of the bed before Richie has even had time to park the truck, ignoring Eddie’s shouts of protest about how they’re going to break their legs one day doing that, and the three of them make a beeline right for Bill’s car when they spot the two boys standing there. The brakes whine loudly for a concerningly long time as Richie shifts it to park, but the boy ignores it in favor of dragging Eddie out of the front seat and over to where their friends have gathered around the tiny grey Volvo.

As soon as they’re all together, Stanley tells them what happened, his voice very slow and controlled as he tries to focus on the rhythm of Bill’s hand as he smoothes circles into the small of his back. Mike reaches to take hold of Stanley’s arm when he starts to get choked up telling them exactly what his father said, and Stanley places his own hand over Mike’s and squeezes back, grateful. Ben has his hands in his hair, his eyes trained to the sky, blinking away tears as Richie throws his arms around Stanley and hugs him fiercely, for once stunned into silence, and Beverly is shaking with a quiet rage, her eyes red-rimmed and her fingers pressed to her mouth in horror.

But Eddie. Eddie can’t move. He can’t breathe. He’s certain _this_ is what having an asthma attack would truly feel like if he were to in all actuality be asthmatic. No one is paying attention to him, and he’s so deeply glad for that. He needs all of the attention on Stanley right now. _Stanley_ , brave and powerful Stanley, who knew telling his father would mean a negative reaction and did it anyway. Stanley, who told his father he had a boyfriend even though he knew it could’ve meant anything for his future, absolutely anything. Stanley, who might be _leaving_ them. His friend. His Loser. Stanley Uris. Brave, beautiful Stanley Uris.

He sees everyone has now joined Richie in crowding around Stanley and, looking at the sky for a brief moment and then back to Stanley, he vows to _never_ tell his own mother the truth. He knows he could never be this brave as the boy he’s looking at now. He knows his own mother could send him away and he has no one there to defend him any longer. He has no Robin Uris. He has no Shawn Kaspbrak.

As his father’s name tolls in his head, Eddie steps forward, tears rolling down his cheeks, hyperventilating quietly, and joins them.

“Eddie,” Bill says, pulling back slightly to look at him and grabbing at his arm comfortingly without losing contact with Stanley. “Are you ok-k-kay?”

Eddie sniffs and nods, gasping a bit. “Stanley,” he calls, and he looks up from where his head is buried in Mike’s shoulder. His eyes are red-rimmed and scared, and Eddie’s sure his own eyes mirror the same things. “You’re so… I love you. I love you so much.” And, suddenly, Stanley’s eyes look a whole lot less scared.

“I love you, Stanley,” Mike murmurs, cupping his large, calloused hand around the back of Stanley’s neck, tapping their foreheads together lightly.

“Stan, I love you,” Beverly gasps, wiping at her face violently and going up on her toes to kiss his cheek gently.

“Stan, the best man, I love you so,” Richie says, voice clear but smile watery, putting a hand over Stanley’s heart. Stanley becomes so overwhelmed with love, affection, joy, fear, helplessness, comfort, emotions he can’t find a name for, emotions he’ll never feel again, that his eyes slip shut in reverence.

“Stanley, I love you so deeply,” Ben vows, hands on Stanley’s shoulders and pressing his forehead to the ball of his neck from behind.

Bill takes a deep breath, eyes soft and kind as he looks at all of his friends surrounding this kind, caring, incredible man, and he knows there is no better moment than now. “Stanley Uris, I love you more than you will ever know.”

Stanley’s head snaps from where it is resting on Mike’s shoulder and he looks directly at Bill, his eyes shining, and when Bill smiles at him, he feels his heart swell in his chest. He grabs a hold of Bill’s shirt collar and pulls him into a kiss and he’s never felt more safe, surrounded on all sides by their friends, by these five beautiful hearts that all beat in time with their own.

“Richie, baby,” Eddie says softly as Stanley and Bill pull apart, “did you never cut the power to Cherry Bomb?”

And then, suddenly, they all realize, yes, Richie’s engine is still running. And, yes, the mixtape Richie had in the cassette player is playing softly in the background. They all laugh, Stanley and Bill into each other’s mouths.

“Could you go turn it off, little lover?” Richie asks, digging the keys out of his pocket and putting them in Eddie’s hand. Eddie jogs over to the car and opens the car door as he hears the song changes. He gasps wetly as he recognizes the song and makes eye contact with Richie. He nods at Eddie, smiling, as the rest of them are too engrossed in each other to notice. Eddie reaches inside and slowly turns up the radio until it’s playing full volume on Richie’s sound system. They all look at him and then back at each other, eyes shining and faces split wide open in shining, brilliant smiles. Richie’s the first one, of course, offering his hand to Stanley.

“Stanley Uris, may I have this dance?” Stanley smiles at him fondly, shaking his head and putting his hand in Richie’s as he spins him. Stanley laughs, bright and open and unafraid for the first time that day.

 _Oh, mirror in the sky_  
_What is love?_  
_Can the child within my heart rise above?_  
_Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?_  
Can I handle the seasons of my life?

Everyone splits off then, Beverly and Mike, Eddie and Bill, as Ben watches from the sidelines with tears streaming down his face, mouth turned up in a smile. He loves these six people so deeply, so much more than he could ever hope to write down in a poem or a verse. They took him in, they loved and cherished him after only knowing him for a few minutes, and only because he helped Eddie breathe again. He feels like these six people breathed new life into _his_ heart, like maybe he was never really breathing before them to begin with.

He looks at all of them like he’s seeing them for the first time. Mike, the strongest man he’s ever known, who’s withstood so much pain and suffering and loss and is still kind, still loves with every inch of himself. Stanley, who is constantly surprising him with his bravery, his resilience, his fierce desire to rise above everything thrown at him. Bill, who leads with a tender fist and the softest voice and still everyone in the room will listen to him. Bill Denbrough is a marvel and Ben is in awe of him. Richie Tozier, who has grown and changed more than anyone he’s ever known just in the short year and a half he’s known him, who has shown a boy like himself who was so starved for friendship and kindness how to laugh and to smile. Ben will never forget that as long as he lives. Eddie, who has been so scared, so nervous to be himself, but never around Ben, never once, and that has been the biggest honor Ben Hanscom has ever been given. And, Beverly, beautiful, blazing Beverly Marsh, who never once looked at him as the new kid, the fat kid, the loser, the nerd. She never saw Ben as a label and just saw _Ben_. He wonders if that kindness, what she did for his self-esteem by doing that, will ever not make her beautiful to him.

Ben watches as Beverly leans her head on Mike’s shoulder and reaches up to kiss his cheek lightly.

“You’re so good, Mikey. So good. I’m so proud of all you do,” she says, voice thick, and he smiles down at her, eyes gentle.

“And I you, Bev.”

Mike Hanlon has worked hard his entire life; the only time he doesn’t feel he has to work is around these six people. He has seen Beverly Marsh go through a series of changes in her life: from when she was young, working on hiding, to when she was older, working on grieving, to now, when he looks at her and sees a girl who tries to forget but not forgive. He knows what happened with her father was ugly, was not something she could grieve in the way he did for his own parents, and he has never once compared their losses. But they both have holes in their lives, missing parents, missing figures that should’ve been there but couldn’t be or wouldn’t be, and others stepped in instead. Beverly loves her aunt in a different way than Mike loves his grandfather. Mike’s love for his grandfather is made of more respect than it is affection. He doesn’t ever remember a time where he told his grandfather he loves him aloud. But he’s so glad Beverly gets that relationship now, got a guardian who stepped in, took care of her, allowed her the easy tenderness that Mike knows was never there in her childhood. Mike thinks Beverly Marsh deserves the world, and Beverly thinks the same for Mike.

Beverly sees Mike as a creature of habit, and it’s even shown clear in his dancing. She smiles as he spins her methodically, planned to the step, to the movement. Beverly feels calm and comfortable in his stronghold, like it isn’t possible for her to ever fall. Beverly Marsh usually feels like she’s swimming, like she’s floating through her world. But when she’s with these people, she’s brought to the edge of the pool, feet on solid ground. She can breathe again. Mike Hanlon is a breath of fresh air for Beverly. Visiting his farm, strolling through the fields, feeding the chickens, grazing with the sheep, tending to the garden, she feels a part of something bigger than herself and her trauma and her past. She feels like there’s a future to be had, a present to be lived in. Mike is more present, more grounded than anyone else she’s ever known and she’s so glad to know him, to dance in his strength, to be brought down to his earth.

Bill and Eddie dance on around them in a wide circle and Eddie wonders if he could ever feel safer than he does with Bill Denbrough, if anyone on earth could. He’s so deeply glad Stanley has Bill throughout all of this to hold and love. Eddie feels safe in the fact that he himself has Bill, has always had Bill, will always have Bill. Eddie may not have his father in his life any longer, but he’s so incredibly glad he has Bill to look up to. Eddie has always felt unreal for as long as he can remember. His mother calls him delicate and fragile, and he had believed her for a long time. But Bill has never treated him like he was something breakable. Eddie doesn’t feel real, but Bill makes him feel like maybe, one day, he could be. He’s never felt more grateful to have somebody in his life. Bill Denbrough is someone he could never be insecure about losing, not the way he is with everyone else. He knows, after his father’s passing, he became scared of death itself. But Bill makes him feel limitless. Bill himself is limitless.

As he strokes Eddie’s back in smooth, gentle circles, Bill wonders if any of these people know how grateful he is that they trust him like they do, love him and appreciate him the way they have from the moment they all met him. He wonders if any of them, even Stanley, will ever understand the magnitude of what they’ve done to his self-esteem. His stutter has lessened dramatically over the years of knowing them. His anxiety when he’s with these six people is greatly diminished. He feels like he’s someone he can be proud of because of their influence. Eddie’s love and admiration of him has always felt larger than life, has always been more powerful than anything else, and as the sun set over their heads and lights the highlights in both their hair to flames, he wonders if Eddie will ever know the magnitude of his effect on people, the force of the fire inside him. He’s sure Richie must be a matchbox, always has been, because ever since they were children, the two of them together set the world aflame. Bill has never been more glad to burn.

Richie bumps into Bill and Eddie and they all laugh.

“Hey, stud,” Richie says, and Stanley laughs lightly. “You know I’m so glad you called us, right?”

“Yeah,” Stanley smiles, eyes almost closing with the force of it. “I know, pal.” Their bodies are almost aligned due to Richie’s seemingly constant growth spurt lately and he barely has to look up to see it. It’s one of the most beautiful sights he’s ever seen, and it just about takes his breath away. Richie thinks, maybe, they’re all a little bit in love with each other - they’re always going to be. Their love, their bond, their connection, it’s been too strong for so long that it seems eternal, infinite, like the universe itself is ephemeral compared to the seven of them and their blazing, beating, mad, wild love. Richie loves Stanley differently than he loves Eddie, Bill, or any of the rest of them, sure. But the amount? The volume of love in Richie’s heart for this loving, beautiful man in front of him? No. That is undoubtedly no different. And he’s certain the rest of them feel the same.

Stanley’s love for Richie has never been conditional. He loves Richie when he’s frustrated with him. He loves Richie when he’s proud of him. He loves Richie when he’s furious with him. He loves Richie even when Richie seems to not even be there at all, disappears from view for a while. And he has to, Stanley thinks, or the force of all that’s inside him, the cataclysmic storms that rage within him all battling for dominance will overtake him. So, he quiets them all for a while and shuts down sometimes. And Stanley loves him still, even then, even when he is gone, because he always, always returns. Richie Tozier is something Stanley can depend on. He knows he will make him want to scream, rip his hair from root, feel alive in ways he never has. Maybe that’s the way Eddie feels around Richie, he wonders. Maybe that’s the way they all feel with him: bright. Burning. Alive. Richie could make even the deadest match set fire, and Stanley needs that in his life. He’s so grateful for Richie who reminds him that laughter is always better than any other alternative. He prays to God that even with the incredible changes Richie has gone through in the last year, he never loses his laugh.

 _Well, I've been afraid of changing_  
_‘Cause I've built my life around you_  
_But time makes you bolder_  
_Even children get older_  
And I'm getting older, too

Beverly fluidly, like water over a dam, switches partners and begins dancing with Ben as Bill switches with Eddie and begins dancing with Stanley. Eddie and Richie connect like magnets, like they were only ever waiting to be held by one another, and they smile, content, happy and whole as the music soothes all their broken hearts.

Richie leans his cheek against Eddie’s as they sway, glad to be able to be open and close and free in the shining sun. Richie watches as the sun goes over the snowy hills, golden and beautiful, and thinks that maybe if he is the sun, then Eddie is the moon. They will orbit around each other forever - he has no doubt in that knowledge. Richie smiles and closes his eyes, skin lit up, and feels at peace for these few minutes they have with this sunset and this song and each other. He is comforted in knowing that, while the sunset will fade, the track will change and so will they, this love never will.

“Hey,” Eddie says quietly pulling back to look at his dazzling boy, and Richie hums without opening his eyes. He smiles at him, so humbled that Richie trusts him the way he does. He pulls Richie’s coat closer to his chest, sliding his hands underneath it and resting them on his shoulders. “You’re beautiful. You know that?”

Richie smiles softly. “I don’t need to open my eyes to say the same.” Eddie kisses the corner of his mouth as they spin.

Eddie feels like a deadened match a lot of the time. Like his fire burned out long ago and he’s now simply walking through life as a pile of ashes. He feels that way with Greta Keene, writing in a permanent marker that he is a loser. He feels that way with Henry Bowers, watching him all but out the most precious person to him. He feels that way in his own home, hiding in the darkness when he should be playing in the sun. But where he’s never felt that way is with these people, with Richie. Richie gets him going, always has, gets him hot and sparking, sets fire to places inside him he thought had become dead to rights long ago, long before Richie was even aware of what he was doing. But now that he’s grown into himself, grown into his voice and knows how to use it, he makes Eddie squirm. He makes Eddie want to cause mayhem and wreak havoc. And he lets him, wants him to, begs him to come with him and out into the light. Eddie often feels like a plastic boy; like the placebo drugs his mother fed him for so long wormed their way into his soul and made him fake, too. But around Richie, he’s never had to think about his fake inhalers and his fake pills and his fake life. Richie makes him come alive, like Frankenstein’s monster. Richie Tozier is the lightning strike that keeps him alive.

Despite him passing over ten years ago now, Eddie thinks about Shawn Kaspbrak every day. He knows Mike does the same about his parents, and Ben with his, so he doesn’t feel it’s odd to do so, comforted strangely by that combined loss. But Eddie is certain that when he’s around his friends, his father would be glad he almost never remembers to grieve. He also knows his father would be proud of the team he’s assembled. His father gave him his starter comic books, the ones he still reads today, old and frayed at the edges: _The X-Men_. A team of traumatized, torn-apart folks looking for a home, and found one in each other. He feels certain his father would be so glad Eddie’s found his own team after searching for one his whole life.

Mike looks around at his friends, all smiling as they spin in clumsy circles, and he feels grateful, truly and honestly grateful, for the first time in a long, long time. His parents taught him that gratitude is the most natural part of life - to be grateful is to be alive. He’s always felt like a little bit of his gratitude towards the world, towards people, towards living, died with them in the fire. He says thank you to his grandfather almost every day, but it feels hollow and too rehearsed to be real in his throat. But now, looking at all of these wonderful people whom he’s come to think of as family, he realizes that he’s been grateful far longer than he even realized.

These people took him in without a second glance at his past up in flames or his skin leagues darker than theirs. They don’t focus on the things that make Mike different to them and instead focus on the things that bond them together - Ben and his love of books, Beverly and her love of gardening, Bill and his love of children, Richie and his love of laughter, Eddie and his love of found family, and Stanley and his love of animals. He remembers when they were younger telling Stanley about vegetarianism and veganism. Stanley had tried both at different points for a long time in solidarity with Mike’s choice, but found that being either was too hard when his father cooked chicken every week and refused to let Stanley eat without them. _Food is a family activity,_ he’d told Stanley. _You will eat what I make for you and be grateful for it._ Gratitude, Mike thinks, is something that cannot be forced. It sneaks up on you naturally like falling asleep. These six people giving him his family back from whence it was once lost is something that Mike will be grateful for for the rest of his days.

Beverly smiles as she collides with Ben, laughing as he lifts her by the waist. She holds onto him by the neck and laughs into his hair and her ankle bracelet jingles lightly on the way down. Beverly feels safe with Eddie. She feels safe with Bill. But she has never felt the level of safety that she has with Ben Hanscom. She knows as she holds onto this steadily shrinking boy for dear life that he will never drop her, never let her go, never lose her. Ben has changed physically, in the last year she’s known him, sure. But Beverly still sees the same boy she loved that came to the door in a New Kids On The Block band shirt and pajama pants one warm, rainy summer day. He runs with Eddie around Derry now; Eddie is so happy with the freedom it gives his lungs, and Ben is incredibly pleased with his body’s changes. He feels confident for the first time, he says, and Beverly is so glad for him. But she knows she would’ve seen a beautiful, handsome Hanscom no matter what he looked like. She loves him now like she loved him then like she’ll love him years from now, whatever he may look like, because it’s not about what he looks like, it never was. It’s about how they feel together. It’s about safety. It’s about love.

Bill cradles Stanley as they rock back and Stanley feels like he’s aged years in the span of a day. He knows this day will change his life. He knows today is one he will never forget, one he will need to tell his children about when they’re older. But as Stevie Nicks sings about building her life around someone and time making you bolder, he knows she’s right. Time has made Stanley bolder, time and these six people. Time and loving Bill Denbrough. It isn’t that Bill himself had a stronger impact on him than Richie or Mike. No, that would be unfair to say. They’ve all equally and for different, unique and beautiful reasons changed him into the brave person who told his father the truth today. But loving Bill, loving a man so wise and truthful and _kind_ and _kind_ and _kind_ has made Stanley a better person in turn. Bill has softened Stanley’s rough edges. He has made Stanley want to be a better man, a man worthy of Bill Denbrough. And so, a better man he became, because when there is something Stanley Uris wants, he goes for it, full steam ahead. And he has never wanted something more than he has wanted to be deserving of Bill’s love. So, Bill telling him he loves him today, with all their friends’ bleeding hearts surrounding them, it was everything Stanley has ever wanted from this careless, cruel and filthy world. These six people are the only things he’s never wanted to fix, to change, and to hear them all tell him they love him in surround sound, to hear Bill say it resolutely and without a stutter, without fear or reservation, it made him realize that no matter what happens next, no matter where he goes, no matter where his mother may take him, he will always be home here, within these six hearts. Whenever he’s held by them, he’s home.

 _And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills_  
_Well, the landslide will bring it down_  
Oh, the landslide will bring it down...

As the song fades, they all smile at each other, scattered about the sandlot, the place they all began. Richie ends up pulling Eddie down with him into the frosted dust, Eddie grumbling about the cold, and laying down. Richie positions Eddie’s head so he’s on his stomach, threads his hands through his hair, and he looks up at all his friends who are all smiling down at them.

“Well? You fuckers need a written invitation?” Richie asks with a smile as _Hey Jude_ begins to play through the speakers of the car. They all laugh and Ben shrugs, laying his head down on Eddie’s crossed thighs. Mike and Beverly join him, laying down on either side of his stomach. Stanley and Bill untangle themselves from each other and Bill lays down on Eddie’s stomach while Stanley lays on Richie’s and they reach out and grab hands without looking away from the clear sky.

 _And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain  
_ _Don’t carry the world upon your shoulders_

Eddie sighs quietly in pleasure as Richie’s fingers thread through his hair. “I like this mix, baby.”

“Thank you, my love. _Richie Needs Joy Smiles Now_ seemed apt.” Beverly hums in agreement as she reaches out to lace her fingers through Ben’s, watching their hands as she slowly draws shapes with them against the midnight blue sky. He smiles over at her and then back up at the sky, wholly content. He hopes to God that Stanley feels any of the love and joy he does right now.

Richie smiles as he sees the North Star appear in the sky and he knows it’s time for a story. “Hercules was the greatest hero in all of mythology, did you guys know that?” He says it without a voice, without embellishment, and suddenly, they’re all listening closely, rapt with attention. “The Hercules constellation looks a bit like Ursa Major, but with four legs instead of one.”

“Where’s Ursa Major?” Eddie asks, head rolling in Richie’s hands as he looks around. Richie grabs Eddie’s hand and points with him to the faded Big Dipper in the sky.

“Right there, you see, darling? With the handle?” Eddie lets out a soft _ooh_ and nods slightly, tangling their fingers together and resting them on his chest, Richie’s other hand still working through his hair. “Hercules was a mighty hero. He was brave and fought many battles. He was the most powerful champion in the sky. But he also had an enemy, his father, Juno.” Stanley hums quietly. “Juno hounded him all Hercules’ life, following him across the sky, attempting to thwart his champions and successes. On occasion, he succeeded. But then, one day, Hercules declared war on Juno.”

“Why didn’t he do that before? If he was hurting Hercules for so long?” Stanley asks quietly, tenderly, and Bill squeezes his hand. Richie is quiet for a moment and the music washes over them all, feeling made clean and made new in ways they never thought they could.

 _So let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin_  
_You’re waiting for someone to perform with_  
_And don’t you know that it’s just you? Hey Jude, you’ll do_  
The moment you need is on your shoulders

“Because Hercules believed in a pacifist approach,” Richie explains, dropping the bravado he’d unconsciously adopted while speaking for a moment. “He believed through conversation, they could work out their problems. But this did not seem to be the case. So, Hercules and Juno went to war. But before he did, he sent his mother, Lyra, into hiding. He told her not to come out until there had been declared a winner. Lyra was wary, but had reluctantly agreed. It was a bloody and brutal war that spanned across the whole sky. They slayed whole cities with their battles, and Hercules was distraught and broken about this, but Juno would not stop. With every person slain, Hercules created whole galaxies with their soul.”

“Hercules seemed quite wonderful,” Bill comments.

“He was, Billy Boy,” Richie says with a smile.

“Richie?” Stanley asks.

“Hmm?”

“Why didn’t Juno like Hercules?” They’re all silent for a moment, watching as the sky grows darker with every word Richie speaks, stars appearing every time they look at a different spot in the vast, open sky.

“Because Juno was very misguided, Stan,” Richie settles on simply. Stanley swallows the lump in his throat as Richie continues on. “Eventually, when it became obvious that the war would never end, Lyra, Hercules’ mother, came out of hiding. She said to Juno, _if you do not end this war, I will end it myself_. Juno asked her how she would do that and she replied that she would fall on her own sword. Juno deeply loved his wife and was horrified at this prospect. He asked her how he could end it himself, how he could spare her life. Lyra told him that she and Hercules were going to escape into a far corner of the sky where Juno was never to go looking for them; that was the only option. Juno agreed and, with a broken heart, he conceded, never wanting to be his own beloved wife’s cause of death. And so, Lyra and Hercules went to live on the horizon in harmony.”

They all look to the sky, letting out a sigh as John Lennon sings on, they all feel more connected to each other, to the earth and to the universe itself than they ever have before.

“Rich?” Mike asks, and Richie hums. “Was that story real?”

“Well, Hercules is right there,” Richie says, unthreading his hand from Eddie’s hair and pointing to the horizon, “with the legs.”

“But the myth, is the myth real?” Stanley asks, a bit urgently. Richie smiles, putting his hand through Stanley’s curls and tugging slightly.

“You tell me, pal. Is it real?”

Stanley rolls his head in Richie’s light grasp and looks up at him, smiling softly. “It sure feels like it.”

 

* * *

 

It takes just three days for Robin Uris and her son to pack up their lives into as few boxes as they can, knowing that the apartment complex she’d found for them just outside of Derry is going to be much smaller than the house they are leaving behind. She looks down at the countertop where she’d made countless family dinners, the same one she’d needed to lift her little Stanley up to to reach a plate of cookies what seemed like only moments ago, and she sucks in a sharp, strong breath when a single tear splashes onto the surface. She feels a gentle hand on her shoulder and looks up to find her son beside her, his face pinched with concern, and she places her own hand over where his rests, giving his fingers a squeeze.

“Are you alright, Mama?” he whispers this, though both of them know that Donald Uris is not home, that he had left early in the morning and would not be back until after they were gone. Robin smiles softly up at her son, wondering vaguely just when he had grown to tower over her as he does now, and she places one of her hands to his cheek.

“Of course I am,” she promises, and she watches his shoulders relax at her words. “I have everything I could ever need right here.” She pats his cheek delicately. “This house, this life, I am not sad to leave them behind, Stanley. What waits for us beyond that door is brighter than even I could have hoped for you, that much I am sure of…” Stanley smiles back at his mother, his lip quivering a bit, but seeing the strength inside of her keeps his resolve steady, and he wraps his arms around her, hugging her tightly.

“Thank you, Mama - for all you do,” he adds after a brief pause, and Robin stretches on her toes, tilting Stanley’s head down to kiss his forehead just as they hear the familiar roar of Richie Tozier’s truck in the driveway. Stanley laughs wetly and pulls away from his mother’s embrace to head towards the front door, calling, “You’re _late,_ Tozier!”

Robin follows after her son to lean in the threshold of the house, watching as Stanley bounds down the porch steps to catch Richie in a hug after the other boy has hopped out from behind the wheel. Eddie rounds the bed of the truck, pulling the hatch down so that the boys can load Stanley’s mattress into it to transport it to the new apartment.

“Eds, hop in on this lovin’!” Richie squeals as he squeezes Stanley to his chest, pressing their cheeks together as his friend laughs. “I don’t think Stanley’s been this affectionate since kindergarten!” Eddie chuckles at his boyfriend but joins in on the hug nonetheless, jostling Stanley’s curls affectionately.

“Where’s Billy Boy? Isn’t he gonna help with the move?” Richie asks as he leans around Stanley’s shoulder to wave jovially at Robin, who is grinning from ear to ear watching her son smile for what seems like the first time in ages. “Or is he slacking on his angel duties?”

“I h-h-heard that, Trashmouth,” Bill’s voice suddenly sounds from the end of the driveway, and the other three boys look up to find him hanging out of the passenger side window of his mother’s minivan. Terri Denbrough waves from behind the wheel and they all wave back as Bill calls his goodbyes back to his mother before she drives off. “My m-mom told me to tell you if you n-n-need any help settling in to c-c-call her, Mrs. Uris,” Bill adds once he’s reached the crowd of people standing beside Cherry Bomb. “She’s s-s-sorry she can’t help today, Georgie has his math t-t-tutor. That’s why I was a b-bi-bit late - she was dropping him off.” Robin nods at the young man gratefully in response, heart melting at even the consideration.

“Thank her for me still, dear,” she insists. “I appreciate all of your help,” she adds, looking at the rest of them then too, “and I’m sure Stanley does, too…” Stanley nods mutely from where he is still wedged between Richie and Eddie, a slight blush coloring his cheeks, and Bill looks at him with a sort of fondness in his eyes that Robin recognizes immediately, and it only makes her already swelling heart stretch even more in her chest. She has not asked Stanley just which boy had stolen into his heart, which boy had inspired him to be truthful with Donald Uris despite the very real and looming threat of his anger; she did not want to overwhelm Stanley with questions after all he’d just been through in such a short amount of time. But if the way Bill Denbrough is looking at her son now is any indication, well, then she already has her answer.

“Alright, Uris, where’s this bed of yours? We don’t got all day, now,” Richie teases, clapping Stanley on the shoulder, and Stanley rolls his eyes before gesturing for Richie to go ahead of him. Richie grabs a hold of Eddie’s jacket sleeve and tugs him up the steps behind him, following Robin into the house and leaving Stanley and Bill alone.

“Hi,” Bill whispers, taking a step towards him, and Stanley moves closer to him in just two strides, slinking his arms around Bill’s waist in a tight hug. “You okay, baby?” he wonders, running a soothing hand along Stanley’s spine, and the taller boy shrugs, resting his chin on Bill’s shoulder.

“I’m not sure how I feel yet,” Stanley admits sheepishly, and Bill nods with a hum.

“That’s n-not necessarily a bad thing,” he assures. “This is a big change. I’m proud of you.” Stanley looks up sharply, tears welling up in his eyes.

“You are?” he breathes, and Bill coos, reaching up to wipe away a tear that had broken free from his boyfriend’s lashes to roll down his cheek.

“I’m always proud of you, Stanley,” he insists. “I know things being out of place sc-scares you,” Stanley’s lip starts to shake, and he closes his eyes wordlessly, resting his forehead on Bill’s. “But you’re doing it… I th-thought you wouldn’t tell your dad for a wh-while, and you went and did it. You’re always surprising me…”

“I didn’t wanna hide you anymore,” Stanley explains quietly, and Bill swears he could hear his heart thud in his chest. “I never want to hide you.” Bill smiles softly and kisses the bridge of his boyfriend’s nose.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says. “Baby steps, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Stanley breathes, and he drops his head once more onto Bill’s shoulder, hugging him fiercely as Bill leaves a chaste kiss at his hairline.

Neither of them are aware of a pair of eyes on them, and Robin Uris wipes away what she is sure won’t be the last tear she sheds on this day, but she smiles too as she watches her son be held by someone who so clearly cares for him. _This is what Donald cannot understand,_ she thinks. Her husband is too caught up in the thoughts of others, in what people might think of _him_ for having a queer son. Robin does not care what anyone else thinks of her _or_ of her son, for that matter. She will not allow anyone to tell her that her son is wrong for being who he was always meant to be, for being _honest_ with himself, and no one will convince her that Stanley is in need of any help at all, including and especially her husband who, as far as Robin is concerned, is most in need of help out of them all. She watches quietly as Bill kisses her son’s forehead, and her hand flutters subconsciously to the Star of David pendant that rests just over her heart, her thumb toying with the tiny ruby representing the little boy who had been so proud to buy it for her, and she wonders if Stanley will ever know how proud he has made her today, everyday, to be his mother.

 

* * *

 

Stanley is trying. He supposes he could be trying harder, but for right now, he’s counting every day that he manages to lift himself out of his bed and into the outside world a great success.

Despite his mother’s constant insistence that she has never been more overjoyed than to be out from beneath her husband’s overbearing, stifling roof, Stanley cannot help but be consumed with guilt every time he hears her come home after 11 P.M., every time he takes in the sight of the growing bags beneath her eyes. Robin Uris has not worked in nearly ten years, but the tiny doctor’s office nestled into a small strip mall on the same road as the dry-cleaners had a HELP WANTED sign in its window on the day she and her son moved into their new home, and so she had Stanley scribble the telephone number down onto a napkin and called using a payphone outside the apartment complex. They must have been in dire need of assistance, because Robin had barely needed to do more than a brief interview over the phone before being hired as the new receptionist. The hours would be long, this she was sure of, especially at first as she would need to be trained, but a job was a job, and she could not gamble on whether or not her husband would send them money, even if it was what they were rightfully owed.

She never complains, though, and Stanley finds himself wishing every now and again that she would, that she would yell and kick and scream and say what Stanley knows deep down to be true -- that this, their situation, their troubles, that they’re all his fault. He never voices these thoughts, knowing that Bill and the rest of his friends would shut them down immediately, would lose their voices from insisting precisely the opposite, and maybe that should be a dead giveaway for Stanley to realize that none of what he’s feeling is fact, but he cannot seem to shake these emotions from where they rest deep in his chest. He _is_ trying, he can give himself that much, but it does not take much, he finds, for Stanley’s strength to begin to waver.

It is Monday morning again, and it’s freezing. He’s just trekked the entire way to Derry Central on foot after waking up at 4:30 A.M. to be sure he makes it on time to class; his apartment complex is far too outside the area for the school to send a bus to pick him up, and he has utterly refused to allow Bill or Richie to make the drive to fetch him, not wanting them to go out of their way for him, so he did not tell them. He feels like enough of a burden on the people around him as it is. It is 6:45 by the time he makes it to the bike rack at the front of the school and he’s glad that this is the last day he’ll have to do this before Winter Break begins. His nose is completely numb, the very tip of it red, and his cheeks are flushed and wind-bitten. He pats his gloved hands against them in an attempt to warm them up as more students slowly start to file up the walkway and into the school, calling out to their friends as they go. Stanley looks around, scanning the crowd for Bill or Beverly, for any familiar faces, but none of them seem to have gotten to school yet. He looks down at his watch again, 6:55 blinking up at him, and he frowns, feeling his anxiety begin to spike the closer time ticks to the start of the school day. He is surprised that Richie and Eddie haven’t arrived yet, knowing that the latter shares similar feelings with him about being late, and he is sure that he won’t be able to wait for them much longer, knows that his anxiety about being on time will surely overpower his intense desire to walk into the school with his friends.

Stanley lets his eyes travel over the herd of his classmates rushing past, looking one last time for his friends before giving up, and he spins sharply on his heel to head inside the school but instead barrels directly into Henry Bowers. The senior stumbles backwards a bit, having not expected to be run into, and when he looks down to find Stanley peering up at him, horrified, his harsh mug twists into a sinister grin, the corners of his mouth curling upward like a villain straight out of one of Eddie’s beloved comics.

“Get a load of this, fellas,” Bowers jeers, and Belch Huggins grabs a hold of the collar of Stanley’s windbreaker when the boy tries to run past him. Henry’s smirk only widens at the sound of the boy’s frightened yelp when Belch jerks him backwards, hooking one of his arms through Stanley’s while Victor Criss grabs the other, pinning Stanley between himself and Belch so that the boy cannot squirm free. “Where you runnin’ off to so fast, heeb?” Stanley winces noticeably at the slur and Patrick Hockstetter laughs stupidly from Henry’s right side, watching the scene unfolding before him with an unsettling flare of mirth in his dark eyes. “You and the old lady seem to like runnin’ away, huh?”

Stanley closes his eyes with a shuddering breath, trying in vain to block out the cold laughter of the bullies in his ears. He should have known better than to hope that word of his and his mother’s leaving would not get around town, that it would not be a topic of gossip for people that Rabbi Uris’s family has left him for no foreseeable reason. Derry is a small and horrible town, and the people who live here seem to have nothing better to do than comment on the private lives of others, and so, Stanley supposes, his situation must be the latest outlet for entertainment.

“Hockstetter, you went to Sunday school, didn’t you?” Henry wonders casually, and Stanley hears Patrick laugh harshly, but he does not open his eyes even though he is sure that the boy is nodding. “Ain’t divorce a sin?”

“Sure is,” Patrick confirms oily, and Stanley feels both Belch and Criss’s chests move against his shoulders as they chuckle darkly. “Guess Uris here has even more things to ask forgiveness for…” Stanley gulps, feels tears gather in his eyes, but he bites the inside of his cheek, calling on every last ounce of willpower he possesses to keep them from falling freely. He does not want to cry in front of Henry Bowers. He will _not._ But he is so beaten down in his own head over everything these boys are bringing up, still feeling so guilty about how he brought about the unraveling of his family all because he is selfish, and so he does not have the energy to fight back, not even when he feels Belch and Criss start to shove him back and forth, making him dance in front of Henry like some sort of puppet. He is exhausted already from his early walk to school, and so all it takes is one foul step and he finds himself on the ground, eyes flying open with a gasp when he lands in a pile of slush that has yet to melt from the last snowstorm. He feels the icy water soak his sleeves, one of them ripped to the elbow as he had braced his fall, sees the mud staining his jeans, and he shivers, though he thinks it is less from the cold and more from hearing the cruel laughter from overhead. He feels himself grow light-headed at the sight of the mess on his clothes, and he scrambles up onto his knees, trying desperately to get away.

“Fucking fag can’t even stand up straight,” Henry snickers, and he kicks Stanley right in the stomach, knocking him back down onto the cold ground. He bumps his chin against the sidewalk, biting his tongue, and tears sting his eyes when he tastes blood in his mouth. His ears are ringing so loudly that he doesn’t even register the sound of Cherry Bomb’s roaring engine as Richie and Eddie pull into the parking-lot of the school. All he knows is that Bowers’s attention has been diverted long enough for him to get to his feet, but Hockstetter snatches both of his wrists, yanking his arms behind him sharply and making him cry out in pain before he tosses him back into Belch and Criss’s grasp.

“Aw, your boyfriends are here to save the day, queer,” Henry sneers, and Stanley blinks away his tears, following the quarterback’s gaze to locate Richie and Eddie across the way with identical looks of muted concern on their faces. It is obvious they cannot tell who Bowers and his cronies are messing with by the confusion Stanley can read in their eyes, but he also knows that no one knows better than his friends that seeing these four boys crowded around anyone is never a good sign.   

It is Eddie who realizes first what’s happening.

“Stanley,” he breathes, voice barely audible, and he goes to grab his boyfriend’s wrist, but Richie takes off running immediately at the crowd that has formed around the gang, barreling right towards Henry. The bully releases Stanley with a laugh, turning completely towards Richie, gearing up for another round of harassment when -- _WHAM._

Richie skids to a halt, his jaw nearly coming unhinged as silence falls throughout the crowd of onlooking students. No one moves, all of them frozen as Henry Bowers hits the concrete with a thud. Stanley looks up from where he’d buried his face in his own shoulder in an attempt to block out what Bowers was planning to do to Richie, and when he sees Bill standing there over his tormentor, knuckles split open and looking at the older boy like he’s something ugly, something worthy of being beneath his feet, Stanley swears he feels his heart lodge itself in his throat, unsure if it will ever resettle back into place in his chest.

Bill never fights, never turns to violence, but his friends know better than anyone that he can pack a punch when he really wants to, even though none of them have ever really seen it in action until now. Standing there, glowering down at the senior boy lying motionless on the cold concrete, Stanley thinks for the first time that Bill looks _mean,_ and he counts himself lucky that he is one of the few people on the planet lucky enough to know how rare of a moment this really is, that this part of Bill is not something he is happy to unearth, not something he’s proud to have on display.

Bill’s eyes flicker upward and catch Stanley’s in an instant, and the stiffness of the air surrounding him seems to soften almost immediately, the transition so minute that only Stanley is able to notice it. Bill grabs a hold of Stanley’s wrist and pulls him out from where he is still wedged between Criss and Belch, both bullies still staring fish-mouthed at the Denbrough boy, at this meek and mild-tempered, stuttering boy who has managed to upend their ringleader in a single blow. They cannot wrap their heads around it in enough time to stop them from getting away, and so Bill quickly leads Stanley up the steps and into the school, far away from them all, with Richie and Eddie hot on their heels.

Beverly and Kate are standing at the latter’s locker when they see the boys come sprinting inside, Stanley and Bill both looking a mess while Richie is seething with anger and Eddie looks like he’s moments away from becoming ill. Beverly is immediately on red alert, pushing herself into an upright position, her hands fluttering wildly around her friends, specifically Bill, whose knuckles are starting to swell. Stanley is covered in mud, the arm of his shirt torn up to the elbow and the knees of his jeans soaked. He is shivering, his mouth clamped closed, unable to speak; all he can do is lean against Bill’s side and close his eyes, try to breathe calmly through his nose. Richie is whispering hurriedly, filling Kate in on what’s happened while Eddie runs to his own locker to retrieve the first aid kit that he keeps there, needing something to distract himself, something to do with his hands to keep them from shaking. Beverly and Bill share a quiet look before Bill turns to press his lips to his boyfriend’s forehead, and Stanley’s lip starts to wobble then, the tears he’d fought so long to keep from falling trickling slowly down his face.

“Thank you…” he whimpers, sniffling. “Thank you…” Bill hugs him close, trailing his hand soothingly along Stanley’s arm. Richie looks nervously down the hall, his stomach flipping with each passing moment that Eddie has yet to rejoin them, and he feels the tightness in his chest ease up when he spots Eddie darting through the crowded hallway, holding his first aid kit high over his head. Ben and Nick are following close behind him, the latter carrying what looks like his football jersey in his hands, and all three of them are out of breath by the time they reach where their friends are clustered around Stanley and Bill.

Eddie grimaces when he sees how quickly Stanley seems to be coming undone, and he looks to Bill for guidance, unsure if he should even touch Stanley right now. Bill holds his own hand out wordlessly to his friend, straightening his swollen knuckles as best he can so that Eddie can tend to them, and Eddie gives him a watery smile, nodding understandingly. Stanley cries harder when he feels Bill wince as Eddie applies alcohol to his cuts, and Eddie whispers a hurried apology that Bill waves away.

“I’m sorry,” Stanley hiccups, trembling so violently his knees are knocking together, but Bill just rubs his hand up and down his arm, shushing him. “I’m so sorry, Billy…”

“And just what are you sorry for?” Bill coos, kissing his curls delicately. “I don’t feel a thing --” he jumps again, not expecting the slight pressure that comes from Eddie wrapping the gauze around his fingers.

 _“Liar,”_ Stanley cries, and Bill kisses him again, his forehead this time.

“Maybe,” he shrugs nonchalantly, “but I wasn’t going to stand by and let that animal hurt you -- no, sir, not my boy…” Stanley turns further into his boyfriend’s embrace and just lets Bill hold him while Eddie wraps his cuts. “Baby, do you wanna let Eds see your ch-chin?” Bill wonders gently, smoothing his hand through the tighter curls at the back of Stanley’s neck, leaving it up to him, and he smiles encouragingly when the other boy lifts his head from where it was squished between Bill’s jaw and shoulder, tilting his chin towards Eddie.

“Hey, Stan,” Eddie says, voice surprisingly steady, and he touches a fresh cotton square doused in alcohol to the small cut on his friend’s chin. Stanley jumps a bit, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose, and Eddie smiles at him softly as he applies the bandage. “You’re the toughest kid I know, you know that?” Eddie whispers, and Stanley lets out a sad bark of a laugh.

“Eds is right on that one, buddy,” Richie affirms, nodding from his place beside Kate, and Beverly kneels down beside her friend, placing a careful hand on his still quivering shoulder.

“Hey,” she breathes, and Stanley looks over to her, instantly put at ease by her smile; he thinks if he ever had to sit down and choose a favorite feature of every one of them, for Beverly, it would be her smile, no contest. “You did nothing to deserve this,” she promises, and Stanley’s breath hitches in his throat, staring back at her wide-eyed, wondering how she could have possibly known that fear, that horrible, all-consuming dread that this is all some sick punishment brought unto him for his actions. Beverly puts her forehead to Stanley’s temple, her fiery curls tousling his own honey blond, mixing to look like the flicker of a flame, and she wraps her arm through his, pushing against him and feeling Bill do the same from his other side, the pair of them holding him together.

“I think we could all use a day off,” Ben offers up, brow cocked as he looks around at everyone, waiting for someone to disagree.

“You’ll never catch me turning down a chance to ditch,” Richie chimes, tossing his arm around Eddie’s shoulders once he’s back on his feet. “What say you, Dr. K?” Eddie rolls his eyes.

“For Stan, I will break my No Ditching Rule,” he smirks, winking at Stanley, and that actually pulls a genuine laugh from the pit of Stanley’s uneasy stomach. Richie gasps.

“Eds! How come you never wink at me?!” he cries, and Kate rolls her eyes lavishly from where she’s still standing beside Richie.

“I’m cool with ditching,” she says delightedly. “I have a huge Chem test that I forgot to study for…”

“Kate, _you_ forgot to study?” Nick asks, baffled, and Kate flushes a delicate shade of pink, opening her mouth to respond, but her girlfriend beats her to it.

“Uh,” Beverly interjects slyly, smirking from where her head is still resting against Stanley’s, “that would be all _my_ doing, Englehart… Sorry, princess....” She sends her girlfriend a wink that shows she is decidedly _not_ sorry, and Kate giggles into her hand bashfully while Richie whistles and Eddie jabs him in the ribs with his elbow. Nick chuckles and then turns to Stanley, holding the jersey in his hand out to the boy.

“Um, Stan,” he starts, clearly nervous, “when Eddie told me and Ben what happened, I grabbed this from my locker.” He pushes the jersey into Stanley’s hands, “I know you hate messes and I wouldn’t want you to have to go the rest of the day with a messed up shirt. It’s clean and all, so you can borrow it if you want...”

“Oh,” Stanley breathes, eyes welling up again with tears, and Nick quickly begins to backtrack.

“You don’t have to, man - _shit_ , I’m sorry - Bill, please don’t kill me --”

“Shut the fuck up, Englehart, so I can give you a hug,” Stanley snaps, getting wobbily to his feet, and Nick’s shoulders slump in relief as the rest of them chuckle, glad to hear Stanley’s dry humor again. Stanley tosses his arms around the younger boy and hugs him tightly. “Thank you,” he says, patting him on the back in a brotherly manner, and Nick nods against his shoulder.

“If we’re gonna ditch,” Nick says once he and Stanley have broken apart, “we should head over to Mike’s.” The rest of group nods, but ultimately turn to Stanley to make the final call.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, I’d love to visit Mike’s…”

“Then it’s done,” Bill decides, linking his fingers with Stanley’s and bringing their hands to his lips.

 

It is Kate’s idea to hide out in the girl’s restroom until the bell signaling the start of homeroom sounds to ensure that they won’t run into any members of the faculty (or _worse_ , Henry Bowers or any of his minions) on their way out of the school. The eight of them all pile into the restroom closest to the door that leads to the parking-lot once Beverly has scoped it out and made sure it is empty per the boys’ request.

“This feels like a huge invasion of privacy,” Ben insists anyway once they’re inside, and Kate scoffs fondly at her friend.

“It’s just a _bathroom_ , sweetheart,” she says. “Not like us gals are in here doing anything _sacred_...” Beverly hits her arm playfully.

“Oh, don’t ruin Ben’s vision of the girl’s room like that, Kay!” she scolds, voice teasing, and everybody laughs, even Ben, despite the blush coloring the apples of his cheeks that only darkens when Beverly blows a kiss in his direction, cooing, “You’ll always be the sweetest boy I know, Hanscom.”

“Gee, thanks,” he throws back, grinning at her as he scratches at the nape of his neck nervously. Stanley shoves Ben’s shoulder while Beverly is busy peering out into the slowly emptying hallway, and when he turns to face Stanley, he finds him with his eyebrows raised. Ben shoots him a pointed look and Stanley holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“I’m gonna change my shirt,” Stanley announces, and he ducks into one of the stalls, locking it behind him, and Beverly looks behind her at the sound of the lock sliding into place.

“Stan the Man, if you want me to sew your shirt sleeve, just toss it over the stall, babe,” she calls, and Stanley does exactly that, throwing the neatly folded button-down towards the sound of her voice, and Beverly catches it easily.

Stanley re-emerges from the stall in Nick’s football jersey, and even though the younger boy is shorter than him, it fits him surprisingly well, although it does sit a little high on his hips. Richie wolf-whistles and Eddie shushes him quickly for fear of somebody discovering them, but he too is grinning at the sight. All of the Losers have been trying to talk Stanley into going out for the school’s baseball team, or any sport really, but their friend has adamantly refused for years; they all understand why he avoids football, not wanting to spend any more time with Bowers or his friends than they already unfortunately have to, but they would all be lying if they said it doesn’t break their hearts a little to know that Stanley is hiding this part of himself away, this talent he’s possessed since they were all small.

“Looks okay?” Stanley asks sheepishly, and everyone else smiles.

“Like a million bucks, Staniel,” Richie promises, and Eddie nods. Kate holds up a sweet thumbs-up while Beverly pretends to fan herself. Ben mimes fainting as Richie barrels on, “Englehart _wishes_ he looked that good.” Nick clears his throat loudly from his left. “ _Oh my --_ Nicholas, I forgot you were in here! Oh, what a faux pas!” Nick flips him off before looking in Stanley’s direction.

“It definitely suits you, Uris. Maybe you could try-out next year once -- ” Nick goes to say _once Bowers is gone,_ but the sad smile on Stanley’s face stops him, so he falls silent as he watches the older boy shake his head.

“No thanks, buddy. I’ll stick to the sandlot with my Losers...” He smiles at his oldest friends and they all smile back. Nick nods understandingly. The only one yet to comment on the shirt is Bill, and so Stanley turns toward him slowly once his friends have focused on planning their escape route, a somewhat devious grin on his face. “Anything to say, Denbrough?” Bill looks him up and down, tilting his head to the side.

“Cute,” he answers bluntly, and Stanley furrows his brow.  

“That’s it?” he asks, frowning slightly, and Bill steps closer to him, stretching on his toes to whisper in his boyfriend’s ear.

“Oh, that is definitely not _it_ ,” he promises, his breath tickling Stanley’s skin, and he wraps his arm around the taller boy’s waist. “That’s just all I can m-mu-muster that’s appropriate for company…” Stanley blushes the precise shade of maroon as the jersey and ducks his head to hide it in Bill’s shoulder. Bill hugs him to his chest. “Are you feeling a little b-better now, love?”

“Starting to, yeah…” Stanley whispers. “I’ll be better once we’re outta the school...” Bill nods, running his hand up and down the other boy’s spine comfortingly before pulling back to slide his jacket from his shoulders and wrap it around his boyfriend. “Hon, no, I don’t need -- ”

“It’s cold outside, sweetheart, and your jeans are soaked,” Bill whispers, frowning when he notes how Stanley winces at the reminder that he’d been pushed into the snow. “I’ll be fine in just my sweatshirt,” Bill promises, kissing his cheek sweetly as Beverly looks over her shoulder at them from where she’d drifted to look out the door again, the already present grin on her face stretching wider at the sound of the homeroom bell.

“Coast is clear, kiddos,” she declares, and Richie lets out a whoop, resulting in his getting beeped by every last one of them simultaneously, voices synced to the point where it almost seemed choreographed, and Richie pouts.

“That one hurt, you guys,” he says, and Nick rolls his eyes.

“Have Eddie kiss it better. We got places to be, Tozier,” he reminds, shoving Richie out of the bathroom after Ben, and Richie shoves him back, forcing Eddie to jump between them.

“Are you two ever going to grow up?” Eddie hisses as they all stalk towards the door that will bring them outside to the parking lot. Richie places a hand over his own heart.

“God, not if I can help it, doll,” he whispers back, winking at him, and it’s Eddie’s turn to roll his eyes as he gathers a fistful of Richie’s jean jacket and drags him off towards where Cherry Bomb sits waiting for them. “Eds,” Richie cries, not caring about his tone now that they’ve made it outside, his eyes wide behind his glasses as he looks down at Eddie’s hand where it’s holding him, “not in front of the _children_ , darling!”

“You are ridiculous,” Eddie sighs, climbing into the passenger’s side of the truck while Richie hops behind the wheel and starts her up. Eddie watches Stanley, Bill, and Ben make their way over to Bill’s Volvo while Beverly, Nick, and Kate pile into the latter’s car on the other side of the lot. “We’re sure gonna surprise Mikey comin’ over like this, huh?”

“Oh, Mikey’ll be thrilled! I mean, not about what happened to Stan,” Richie amends, his face falling a bit, but he perks up quickly again, a smirk clouding his face, “but I’m sure he’ll love to see his boy-toy.”

“Are you ever going to lighten up on Nick?” Eddie asks, brow furrowed at his boyfriend, and Richie scoffs as he peels out of the parking-lot.

“I thought you knew me better than that, Eds,” Richie says as he taps his hand on the steering wheel, waiting for the traffic light to turn green. “I fuck around with the kid because I think he’s alright. Plus, he makes Mikey happy.”

“Aww, that was sweet, baby!” Eddie coos, running his thumb along the back of his boyfriend’s hand. “See? Why can’t you say _that_ to Nick?” Richie gags.

“I’d rather die,” he promises, and Eddie rolls his eyes lovingly.

_“Drama queen...”_

“That’s _right,_ sugar, and don’t you forget it!”

When Mike looks out his bedroom window to see Cherry Bomb rolling into his long, winding driveway, followed by both Bill and Kate’s cars, he perks up immediately, popping out of his bed and running down the steps to the front door. He’s not sure what about this particular Monday has inspired his friends to ditch school, but he’s glad nonetheless, as he had planned to spend his day holed up inside. His grandfather had gone into town to discuss new prices with the vendors who buy from their farm, leaving Mike alone, so the boy is overjoyed to have company, especially from his favorite people. He throws the door open, watching as Kate, Beverly, and Nick darts up the driveway towards him, grinning from ear to ear. Mike feels his cheeks burn.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Mike teases, and Nick’s own faces flushed as he wraps his arms around the older boy’s waist in a warm hug. Mike squeezes him close to his chest, smiling into his windblown curls, and he presses a kiss to the top of his head that sends Nick’s heart into overdrive. It almost gives the younger boy enough nerve to crane his neck up and kiss Mike fully on the mouth, but he has not forgotten what they talked about, how Mike wants to move slowly, always a man of caution, and so Nick holds back, turning instead to smile up at him in a way that nearly knocks the wind out of Mike. “Y’all felt like playin’ hooky today, or somethin’?” Mike’s asks lightly, but his blood runs cold when Nick’s smile falters.

“Something happened,” Nick whispers, and Mike looks over his head at the girls to find them with forlorn smiles on their faces before his gaze trails to the rest of them. Richie, Eddie, and Ben are nearly halfway up the porch steps, while Bill and Stanley are lagging behind a bit, the latter wearing Bill’s Carhartt jacket over what looks like -- Mike’s eyes narrow inquisitively.

“Is that your jersey Stan’s wearing?” he wonders, a touch of jealousy flaring up in his chest that he quickly stifles, reminding himself how _stupid_ he would have to be to give in to that. He doesn’t ever want to be jealous over his boyfriend’s - well, _potential_ boyfriend’s affection towards his friends. His frown remains, though, and Nick nods mutely.

“I lent it to him,” he explains, offering up nothing else, sure that Stanley would want to tell Mike himself, that is if he tells him at all. Stanley and Bill join the group on the porch at last, Bill smiling at Mike and giving him half of a wave from his place beside his boyfriend, and Mike’s stomach twists even more when he sees the gauze wrapped around the hand Bill had raised to greet him. He scans his eyes over the other boy and grimaces when he notices the bandage just beneath Stanley’s chin.

“Guys, what happened?” Mike breathes, eyes flickering around the porch, begging for one of them to tell him what had transpired, what had brought them all here unannounced and with at least two of them sporting injuries. Stanley simply shrugs, almost robotically, and Mike’s arm that is still wrapped around Nick tightens. The younger boy feels Mike’s hand begin to tremble where it rests on his hip and he looks over at him to find a look of concern on his face.

“I had my fill for the day, personally, so we figured we’d come see what we could get up to around here....” Stanley explains, and Mike does not miss the glossiness of his friend’s eyes, the way he seems to be trying to be as blase as he can, and so Mike nods, never wanting to push for more than someone is willing to offer up. He leaves Nick to cross the porch and throw his arms around Stanley instead, hugging his friend close, and he feels Stanley relax into his embrace, feels his mouth pull up into a smile against his throat.

“I’m glad you all came,” Mike whispers, patting Stanley on the back, and he hopes Stanley knows all he means in that simple statement. _I love you. You’re stronger than you know. I’m sorry you’re hurting so much, for whatever reason. I’m glad you’re here._ “Gramps ditched me today to doll out shipments, so I didn’t have much planned,” he says as he pulls back to look at the rest of them, one hand still on Stanley’s shoulder while the other grabs a hold of Bill’s, “and I didn’t have many chores to do so I finished ‘em up pretty quick, but I’m sure we can find something to do…”

“Mikey -- can I visit the chickens?” Stanley breathes timidly, and Mike smiles, knowing how calming his friend finds birds of all types to be.

“Sure thing, Stan the Man,” he nods, tossing his arm more of the way around Stanley and guiding him back down the porch steps and across the lawn, their boots crunching in the frozen grass. “Y’all comin’?” he calls back over his shoulder when he realizes none of them are following, and Bill shakes his head with a smile, nodding in their direction, and Mike nods back curtly, understanding and loving them all even more for recognizing that Stanley needs this quiet moment to himself. He gives Stanley’s neck a gentle squeeze and leads him over to the chicken coop where he can already hear a few of them scuffling about inside, their quiet noises making Stanley feel calmer already.

Kneeling down carefully, Stanley brings himself to be eye-level with the chicken coop, placing his hand up against it as he watches the chickens bop around inside. Mike does not miss the way his friend winces when his knee bends, and he frowns when he notices the small tear in his jeans, the flecks of what look horribly like dried blood. Mike unlocks the hatch of the coop wordlessly and opens up the doors before handing the bag of feed over to Stanley, who plunges his hand inside, grabbing a fistful. He holds his hand out towards one of the birds and it immediately comes to him, eating carefully out of his palm, and Stanley smiles, using his other hand to pet its head.

“Thank you, Mikey,” he says as he turns to look up at where the other boy is standing over him.

“No problem, buddy -- glad to help,” Mike nods kindly, and he means it, always happy to bring his friends some peace when they need it. Stanley’s life has been so chaotic lately, messier than any of the rest of them knew he could ever handle, and so Mike himself feels more at ease knowing that he is able to help him, that he can offer Stanley the serenity and silence of a little corner on his farm, far from the noise and the cruelty and the mess that has been surrounding him over the past few weeks. “You wanna talk about what happened?” Mike whispers, placing a careful hand on the other boy’s shoulder.

“Not right now,” Stanley replies firmly, and Mike nods.

“Okay. Well, I’m here when you want to -- if you want to,” the older boy insists, and Stanley turns back to look at the chickens, tilting his head slightly to peer at them.

“I know that,” he assures. “Thank you.” He gets back to his feet and dusts the dirt off of his knees half-heartedly, starting to accept the fact that they’re dirty and there isn’t much he can do about it; he imagines the dirt is from the sandlot, that he’s just slid home after rounding the bases, and it becomes easier to look at the stains. He even smiles a bit, wishing the sandlot wasn’t covered in snow and that they could head over, get a game going, knowing that nothing could possibly take his mind off of what happened that morning better than a good game of ball with his pals, but as he follows Mike back up to the house, he supposes that a day spent inside will do just as well to calm his nerves.

They find the rest of them in the living room. Richie is flipping through the television channels so quickly it is almost impossible to tell what is showing on any of them while Eddie wrestles him for the remote which, unsurprisingly, seems to be delighting Richie to no end.

“God, Eds, I never knew you could be so _handsy_ ,” he squeals, holding the remote high over his head, using his height to his advantage as Eddie scrambles into his lap after it, stretching to swat the device out of his boyfriend’s hand. Richie rakes his hand up Eddie’s side sharply, pressing the pads of his fingers into the space between the smaller boy’s ribs, tickling him. Eddie shrieks with a giggle, folding over in Richie’s lap.

“That’s not fair!” he gasps in between his laughter, but he lets Richie curl his arm around him anyway, accepting defeat and resting his forehead against the boy beneath him. “That was a cheap shot…”  

“What can I say?” Richie looks up at him gleefully, “I play dirty.” He tilts his chin up to kiss Eddie, but his boyfriend makes a wild grab for the remote, rolling quickly out of Richie’s grasp and back onto the sofa beside Ben. _“Hey!”_

“I can play dirty, too,” Eddie teases, half a smirk on his face, and Stanley high-fives him from where he’s standing behind the sofa as he flips the television back to _Batman,_ eyes lighting up with glee at the sight of the cartoon _._ Richie wraps his arms again around his boyfriend, pulling him back into his lap and kissing his brow fondly before settling his chin on his shoulder to watch along.

“Cute, Eds - real cute,” Beverly insists with a grin from where she’s leaning on Kate’s shoulder, and Kate reaches out her hand to touch Stanley’s arm sweetly as he walks past where the two girls are squished onto the love-seat, making a beeline for Bill who is sitting alone in Leroy Hanlon’s armchair.

“Hi, honey,” he says, smiling up at Stanley and holding his arms out for him to plant himself in his lap. Stanley does precisely that, curling up in the other boy’s arms and tossing his long legs over the arm of the chair while he snuggles close to his chest. Bill kisses his nose sweetly and tucks Stanley’s head beneath his chin. “Were the ch-chickens happy to see you?” he asks as he plays with his boyfriend’s curls, and Stanley chuckles, nodding against his throat. “Good,” Bill hums, pressing his cheek to the top of Stanley’s head and hugging him tightly. “I love you.” He whispers this for the other boy to hear only, and Stanley burrows further into his boyfriend’s arms, turning his head to kiss his jaw chastely. Bill catches the other boy’s chin with two of his fingers, tilting his head up further to kiss his lips and Stanley’s mouth curves up into a sweet smile as he kisses him back, his hands knotting in Bill’s hair to draw him closer, craving the feeling of being in the other boy’s arms. When Bill is with him, Stanley feels like he can do anything, like he can withstand anything that life throws at him, like nothing in the world can possibly be bad so long as this beautiful boy is holding him. Bill is the first to pull away and he noses his way into Stanley’s curls, kissing his brow sweetly before looking over the other boy’s head at their friends and finding all of their eyes on them.

Beverly’s eyes are shining with unshed tears and Kate’s entire face is consumed by a smile so wide that the apples of her cheeks are pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose as she rests her head on her girlfriend’s shoulder, watching the boys fondly for a moment before turning back into Beverly’s hug.

Richie has his arms still coiled around Eddie, his chin still resting on the smaller boy’s shoulder, and for once, he’s completely speechless watching the display of love in front of him. He thinks if anyone can be there for Stanley unconditionally, can give him the love he so desperately needs right now, there isn’t a better person to do it than Bill Denbrough, and Eddie agrees, tilting his own head a bit to lean against his boyfriend’s as he turns his gaze back to the television, knowing what Stanley deserves after today is something for himself.

Nick and Mike are sitting on the floor, their backs pressed to the sofa, the latter’s arm slung behind the younger boy’s shoulders in a way that should be casual but isn’t, and everyone in the room knows it including the two of them. As Mike watches Bill and Stanley then, so blissfully in love and lost to each other entirely so much so that Stanley seems to have completely forgotten that they are not alone in their own little world, he is over the moon for them, but something deep inside of him aches, aches for what he sees in front of him, for the type of love that he knows he can feel for the boy beside him if he would only let himself feel it completely.

Nick is aching too, wanting so desperately to let his cheek fall onto Mike’s shoulder, to curl up beside the older boy in a way he’s sure would feel like coming home after a long day. He respects Mike wanting to move slowly, recognizes why he’s wary, but that does not mean that every second Nick spends beside him without being able to act on how he feels is not killing the younger boy slowly. It was almost easier when he was still dating Kate, because then at least there was a hurdle he still needed to jump, but now that the lane is wide open ahead of him, he can feel himself tripping over his feet more than he ever has. Seeing how effortlessly the couples surrounding them seem to have fallen into each other gives him some hope though - especially Richie and Eddie who, from what Nick has heard from the rest of the group, had nearly killed one another prior to getting together. If these people crowded into this room all made their way to one another, then Nick is sure that he and Mike will, too, when both of them are ready for each other.

Ben is the quietest of all, just soaking in everything he sees, looking around at this group of people that he loves, this gang of misfits and outcasts who dropped into one another’s palms by happenstance or fate or some divine intervention to lift one another up, and Ben has never been more grateful to be a loser, to have had nothing better to do one summer day than stare longingly out of his window and wait for something to happen. He wonders if that day is as much of a fixture in his friends’ minds as it is his own, if they remember it the same way he does, as the true first day of their lives. He wonders which day Kate holds in her heart, which day Nick keeps safe in his mind, which day they consider the day that they were found by these incredible people, which day they were brought home to these six incredible, blazing hearts, just as Ben had been. He coughs quietly, blinking away tears he can feel collecting in his eyes, and he looks down at his lap, so filled to the brim with the love he feels in this room that he thinks he might just burst with it.

“Hey,” Stanley’s voice suddenly rings throughout the otherwise silent room, quiet and firm, and he turns from where he is curled in Bill’s embrace to face his friends. “I love you guys,” he says simply, making sure to look at each one of them, and there isn’t a single one of them who doesn’t smile back in that moment.

“We love you too, Stan,” Mike promises, and Nick nods beside him fiercely. Richie reaches out to squeeze Stanley’s shoulder kindly and Eddie beams at him. Beverly and Kate blow him a kiss in perfect unison, and Ben looks back at Stanley silently, raising his hand to place it to his chest, directly over his heart, and Stanley feels his lip start to wobble. Bill hugs him tightly and kisses his temple, holding him to his chest, and Stanley is sure in that moment that his friends, that these eight people crowded into this living room, tangled together and thrown on top of one another, that they will always shield him from harm, that their love makes him invincible.

 

* * *

 

Kate throws the front door of her house open and lets out a squeal when she finds Richie, Ben, Eddie, and Beverly on the other side, the first two ladened with boxes of decorations, streamers and noise-makers piled up inside atop what looks like leftover red boas from their _Rocky_ shadowcast. Beverly looks her girlfriend up and down carefully, a bemused smirk on her freckled face as she takes in the tiny black top hat pinned into her curls with _1993_ sticking out of it; she’s wearing a deep purple baby doll dress with a pair of polka-dot knee-high socks and heels that, paired with the hat, _still_ only bring her up to Beverly’s shoulder.

“You are adorable,” she insists fondly, and Kate turns the precise shade of red as the other girl’s hair before stealing into Beverly’s arms to hug her tightly and kiss her lightly on the cheek, leaving behind a perfect lipstick stain that Beverly makes no effort to remove. Instead, she turns her head to kiss Kate again, her mouth this time, and the shorter girl giggles against Beverly’s lips, blushing still when they break apart.

“Where did you want these decorations, Tiny Dancer?” Richie asks around the noise-maker that’s already sticking out of his mouth, and Kate laughs loudly when Eddie suddenly snatches it from between his lips and tosses it back into the box his boyfriend is holding.

“You do _not_ need any help making noise,” Eddie reassures snarkily, and Ben snorts, nodding his agreement as he heads inside after Kate. Richie’s eyes narrow as he walks after his boyfriend, feeling a grin of his own stretching onto his face.

“Well, I suppose you would know that better than anyone, wouldn’t you, Eddie baby?” he taunts and Eddie whips around to look at him, his dark eyes wide. Beverly’s jaw nearly drops through the floorboards at their feet and into the Thackeray’s living room, her eyes flickering back and forth between the two boys as she chuckles.

“God, you really are bad, Tozier,” Kate comments from the opposite side of the island in her kitchen, making a sweeping gesture along the counter to let the boys know they can set the boxes down wherever they please. They do so, Richie piling the one he’d been holding on top of Ben’s once the other boy puts his down. “It’s a wonder how Eddie puts up with you,” she adds, her brow arched playfully, waiting for one of them to speak up.

“Oh, don’t let him fool you - he _loves_ it,” Richie promises, sending a wink in Eddie’s direction, and the other boy rolls his eyes but is unable to stop his mouth from betraying him as the corners twitch up into a reluctant smile, and he shakes his head at the ceiling over their heads as his boyfriend’s arms find their way around his waist. Beverly scoffs in amazement at her friend’s nerve before upending one of the boxes and gathering the decorations in his arms to prop them against her chest. She takes ahold of her girlfriend’s hand, pulling her into the dining room to finish decorating before the rest of their friends arrived. Ben follows them with the other box, leaving Richie and Eddie alone in the kitchen.

“Can your resolution this year be to practice discretion?” Eddie pleads, yet he twists his fingers around Richie’s where they rest folded on his waist anyway, pressing his body back against the taller boy’s chest, and he feels Richie’s lips pull into a smirk where they’re resting against the nape of his neck.

“Oh, Eds - that would be no fun at all, now would it?” he teases, skirting his hand up Eddie’s side, tickling him, and he kisses the other boy swiftly when he hears his soft, breathy giggle bubbling on his lips. Eddie sighs and twists in Richie’s arms, tossing his arms around the taller boy’s shoulders and stretching a bit on his toes to reach him better while Richie’s hands remain at his waist, drawing him closer. Neither of them hear the front door open again, and it isn’t until they hear a loud groan that they even jump apart to find Stanley, Bill, Mike, and Nick standing in the threshold of the kitchen.

“Do you two have to defile every house you enter?” Stanley whines, shielding his eyes with his free hand as Richie and Eddie unbraid their limbs from where they had been wound around one another.

Richie smirks playfully at Stanley. “That is certainly _my_ goal,” he swears, crossing his fingers over his heart as he pulls an absolutely scarlet Eddie to his side, and Bill sighs as he places the brownies and cookies that he and Georgie worked on all weekend onto Kate’s kitchen counter.

“It’s n-n-never boring at one of our parties, I g-guess…” he says, and Mike scoffs.

“That’s for damn sure.” Nick hoists what he’s carrying up onto the counter as well and Richie claps his hands together gleefully.

“Oh, you _do_ love me, Stanley Uris!” he cheers, reaching for the microphone attached to the karaoke machine with a brilliant gleam in his eyes that is almost precious enough to cause Stanley’s snarky reply to die on the tip of his tongue. Almost.

“Oh, no, no, no,” he chastises, slapping Richie’s hand away, and Richie winces like a wounded animal, curling back into Eddie’s side. “Not until I have at least three shots am I going to let you anywhere near a _microphone,_ Trashmouth, are you _insane_ ? We’ve been _through_ this.” Richie pouts and folds his arms over his chest, making himself look like an overgrown child.

“God - at least when Eddie insults me, it’s _hot_ ,” he snaps, and Eddie groans, eyes trained to the ceiling. “Hey, kinkshaming isn’t nice, Spaghetti-Man.”

“I have literally never wanted to kill you more than I do in this moment,” Eddie promises and Richie’s face nearly splits in two from his grin.

 _“See!”_ he points wildly at Eddie, and Stanley gives his friend a pointed look.

“You’re hopeless, Trashmouth,” he decides, and then he claps Eddie on the shoulder. “And you deserve a fucking medal, Kaspbrak,” he adds, but he winks at Eddie when he sees him starting to look nervous, beginning to wonder just how far this round of teasing will go. He looks up and sees that Richie is laughing, too, and Eddie releases a breath he was not even aware that he was holding until that moment once he realizes everyone is just messing around, that the comments are benign, harmless.

“You losers gonna stand around and gab all day or are you gonna help us out!” Beverly shouts from the living room, and Mike sets down the bags of chips he’d brought along with him.

“I believe we’re being summoned, gentlemen,” he informs, and he nudges Nick carefully with his arm before heading into the other room to help the girls and Ben. The younger boy turns pink, ducking between Stanley and Richie to follow after Mike, and the boys who remain in the kitchen all share a knowing glance prior to filing their way into the living room. Beverly is barefoot already, her right big toe sticking out through a hole in her tights as she balances herself carefully on the back of the sofa, trying to toss one of the streamers up onto a beam that spans from one corner of the room and arches up towards the center of the ceiling.

“Babe, be _careful_ ,” Kate sighs, hurrying over to grab a hold of the other girl’s waist when she wobbles a bit, catching herself from falling backwards at the last second. Beverly laughs loudly and swivels in her girlfriend’s grasp to press a tender kiss to the top of her head, nearly disappearing in Kate’s wild curls.

“Shoot, Thackeray - that girl of yours jumps off _cliffs_ ,” Richie comments, a touch of admiration in his voice that seems to always be there when he speaks of the bravery that sits warmly inside Beverly, “your sofa is nothing…”

“That’s nice, but I have anxiety,” Kate shoots back and Richie holds his hands up in surrender.

“Fair enough,” he remarks, sending her an understanding smile, and her shoulders loosen a bit as she returns it sheepishly. She had forgotten for a moment that she was talking to the boy dating _Eddie Kaspbrak,_ that if anybody in this room is going to accommodate such an ailment, it would be Richie _._ Bill smiles at her too from his place beside Stanley, and Kate thinks she’ll never feel as comfortable with anyone than she does in this moment with these people. Beverly coos and winds her arms around Kate’s shoulders, letting her legs give out beneath her so that she flops onto the cushions, pulling her girlfriend with her, and Kate squeals when she falls on top of Beverly, their noses bumping together. The older girl tilts her head up to kiss Kate’s forehead sweetly and the cheerleader slumps on top of Beverly then, arms winding around her waist as she rests her cheek over Beverly’s heart.

“Hey, none of that!” Richie scolds, pointing at the two girls. “Even if it is adorable!”

“Aw, thanks, Rich,” Beverly grins up at him, leaning her head against the arm of the sofa and making no effort at all to move from where she’s lying beneath Kate. Richie gestures to the barren room madly, his long arms flying wildly around him.

“There’s no time for canoodling, Beverly!” he insists. “We’re supposed to be _decorating_!”

“Tozier,” Kate sighs, “we’re all going to be so drunk within the hour, we’re not gonna know our left from our right -- ”

 _“Amen!”_ Beverly chants, pumping the fist not tangled in the other girl’s curls into the air.

“ -- let alone give a shit about _decorations,_ ” Kate concludes, repositioning herself so that she and Beverly are lying side by side and she can cuddle up beside her, tucking her head in the space between the older girl’s jaw and shoulder. “I say we all take five.”

“No!” Richie wails, looking like he is nowhere close to letting this go. “Benny Boy and I lugged all this shit here to decorate for the party and gosh darnit, we’re going to do it!”

“Baby, take five means we can go back to making out in the kitchen,” Eddie reminds pointedly, running his hand slowly along his boyfriend’s arm, and Richie jolts, snatching the other boy’s hand up immediately and knotting their fingers together.

“Right - take five! Bye, guys!” he calls, waving to them all as he quite literally drags Eddie back into the kitchen past Mike and Nick. Eddie mouths _you’re welcome_ to Kate, who laughs brightly, shaking her head in amazement before suddenly growing rigid with a gasp.

“Stay _off_ of my counter, you animals,” she shouts at their retreating backs, sitting halfway up, and Beverly follows her into a sitting position, not wanting to take her hand from where it had been resting on the other girl’s hip, “or so help me, I _will_ come in there -- ”

“What’s that?” Richie yells back, already out of sight. “ _Come_ on the _counter_? If you insist!’

 _“Beep beep, Richie!”_ the entire party roars, nearly drowning out their friend’s cackles and Eddie’s affronted gasp.

“How will that boy live to see 17?” Nick wonders quietly, shaking his head, and Mike chuckles, leaning back against the wall behind them and brushing their hands together as he does so. Nick jumps noticeably and both boys turn a little red before Mike coughs loudly into his fist.

“Oh, believe me, Stan and Ben have almost murdered him on multiple occasions,” Mike promises. “Eddie, too… You just learn to love him, I guess is the best way to describe it. He has a good heart.”

“Are you sure he even has one, Hanlon?” Kate teases, and Mike nods fiercely, all manners of jest suddenly gone from his eyes as he looks back at her.

“One of the biggest I know of, I’d say,” he swears, recalling just how long he’s watched Richie been falling in love with Eddie, how many years they have all referred to their incredible, inevitable collision as _The Moment -_ that title was coined long before even Ben had come into their lives, and Mike is suddenly overwhelmed by the realization that they must be living in that moment perpetually now. He smiles, remembering the mess and chaos that had been Richie Tozier before Eddie had gotten to him. He didn’t change Richie at his core, not really - he still makes the same horrible jokes, still can’t do an impression to save his life - but he’s softer, he’s more open, more willing to wear that big old heart of his on his sleeve, and Mike is glad for that, honored that he’s one of the few people on Earth who can really say they know Richie Tozier now and that they knew Richie Tozier then. He can recall in stark detail the little ways Richie has grown through being with Eddie; the way his heart has swelled until its nearly consumed all he is. Mike hopes that he can find someone who can get to him the way Eddie did to Richie, but as he looks over at Nick and finds him smiling at him, blue eyes gray in the dim-light of the living-room, Mike thinks for one wild, mad moment that he already has.

“Hey,” Ben suddenly pipes up, breaking the spell, and they all turn towards their friend, finding him still with streamers in his hands. “Do you really not want these put up, Kate?”

“Oh, no, sweetie,” she chuckles, getting to her feet and pulling Beverly with her. “I just love fucking with Tozier.”

“God, who _doesn’t_?” Stanley sighs, grinning, and Nick nods feverishly.

“Touché,” Ben agrees, handing a couple of the decorations over to the girls with a smirk before tossing the rest over to Bill and Stanley. “There’s more out in Cherry Bomb - I’ll go grab ‘em.” He shudders. “If you hear screaming, it’s because I gotta get the keys from Tozier and I might go blind witnessing whatever him and Eddie are getting up to in there...”

“G-Godspeed, Benji,” Bill squeezes his shoulder and Ben chuckles, saluting him, and then he’s gone, darting out of the room. They hear a mild scuffle.

 _“Christ, Hanscom! Announce yourself!”_ Richie shrieks and Stanley rolls his eyes so hard they nearly tumble out of his head and onto the carpet at his feet.

 _“You’re literally in a kitchen!”_ Ben shouts back, making Beverly chuckle as she twists one of the streamers into a bow to slide onto the post at the foot of the staircase leading upstairs. _“There is food here!”_

“Oh, no,” Bill sighs, head dropping into his hands, and Stanley places his hand on his back hurriedly, looking concerned. “They’ve d-defiled the b-brownies…” Mike gasps.

“I will fucking murder Richie if those brownies are wrecked, I swear to God,” he insists, and Nick turns from where he’d been bent over the box of decorations to peer at the older boy, his brow furrowed curiously and with a bemused grin on his face, half of it concealed by his long blonde curls as they hang loosely in his eyes.

“Thought you’d grown to love him, Mikey?”

“Not if he fucks up Bill’s brownies,” Mike says solemnly. “I got no love in my heart for anybody who tampers with those gifts from God…”

“I’m not G-God, Mikey,” Bill blushes just as Richie shouts again.  

 _“Don’t call Eds ‘food,’ Ben! He hates that!”_ The group in the living room hear Eddie’s groan sound right on cue. _“Except when I call him sugar. Then, he loves it.”_

“You sure about that, Big Bill?” Mike teases, nudging his friend’s shoulder, and Bill buries his face in his hands bashfully, turning to hide in Stanley’s arms.

 _“I am right here, Richie!”_ Eddie hisses, sounding out of breath in a way that makes Beverly snicker to herself before mumbling something in Kate’s ear that makes her giggle.

 _“I know you are, Eddie baby - and you look so cute! Doesn’t he look so cute, Ben?”_ Richie prompts, and there isn’t a single one of them who cannot perfectly picture the grin they know is on Richie’s face as he says that, thriving off of both complimenting his boyfriend and driving Ben up a wall.

 _“Just give me the keys to the truck, you buffoon…”_ Ben pleads, and Richie starts laughing a bit hysterically. _“What?!”_

 _“I thought you said_ bottom _and nearly lost my lunch.”_ Ben and Eddie both choke, Ben’s turning into a laugh while Eddie’s morphs into silence and a wide-eyed stare that could either mean something annoyed or something sexual. Richie isn’t entirely sure, but he’s pretty sure either situation calls for a wink. Eddie flushes and begins grumbling nonsensically as he looks away and crosses his arms. Richie digs into the back pocket of his jeans, fishing them out and tossing then to his friend before turning back to kiss his boyfriend, taking Eddie’s face in his hands.

“Un _believ_ able,” Ben breathes, and Richie flips him off without even turning around, making the other boy laugh as he heads out of the kitchen to retrieve the rest of the decorations from the truck, leaving the other two alone. Eddie laughs, sighing into his boyfriend’s mouth, and he tangles his fingers in Richie’s hair to draw him nearer, tugging on his curls.

 _“Eds,”_ Richie whines, breaking away with a gasp so that he can look at the other boy, and when he finds Eddie smirking at him, any breath left inside his own lungs completely dissipates. “You know you’re gonna kill me one of these days, right?” Eddie nods playfully, still grinning as he bops the tip of his nose with his finger. He squirms out of Richie’s arms and saunters towards where they can hear the others talking, laughing. He halts right in the doorway, holding his hand back out to his boyfriend, and Richie takes it quickly, braiding their fingers together. They go to rejoin their friends when Richie suddenly cries, “Oh!” and whirls around, snatching up the tray of brownies to bring along with them.

“Those better not be tampered with, Tozier!” Mike threatens, pointing at Richie when he and Eddie come into full view of the others. He leaps up from where he had been sitting between Bill and Nick to take the tray of brownies out of Richie’s hand, and he places them in Bill’s lap instead. “Scope ‘em out, Big Bill - are they still alright to eat?” Richie rolls his eyes, falling into the armchair closest to him and pulling Eddie onto his lap as Bill makes a lavish show of examining every last brownie on the tray, lifting them to eye-level and peering at them skeptically.

“Th-They look okay to me, Mikey,” Bill insists, and Nick perks up.

“Well, then don’t mind if I do,” he chirps, taking a brownie from the top of the pile and taking a generous bite. He hums in approval.

“Good?” Mike asks, a hint of amusement on his face as he watches the younger boy.

 _“No,”_ Nick says back, tone full of jest as he licks icing from one of his fingers. He takes another bite. “They’re disgusting,” he adds as he chews, and he moves to take the tray into his own lap. “You guys definitely do _not_ wanna eat these - I’ll sacrifice myself for the well-being of the group...”

“Ah, ah, ah, ah,” Mike makes a grab for a brownie himself, “don’t you dare try to come between me and my brownies, Englehart,” he warns, finally succeeding in snatching one after doing a bit of a dance with the other boy as Nick kept moving the tray just out of his reach.

“Oh, now, how could anyone stand in the way of true love?” Nick asks in what was probably meant to be a casual, light tone, but he sounds sort of sad when he says it, and he feels his cheeks start to burn, so he redirects his attention to something else, anything but the older boy. “So how about karaoke?” Richie perks up immediately.

“ _I_ for one, am always up for karaoke…” he insists, perching his chin on Eddie’s shoulder, but Stanley holds his hand up cautiously.

“Uh, what I said in the kitchen still stands, Trashmouth,” Stanley reminds sternly. “Nobody is getting ahold of a microphone until the drinking’s started, _least_ of all _you_.” Richie scoffs.

“Such a buzzkill, Staniel,” he mutters, but he pats Eddie on the side, wordlessly asking to get up, and once he does, Richie ducks back into the kitchen, calling, “ _but,_ if you insist we all get shit-faced at the spry, young hour of 8:00 P.M. _,_ then who am _I_ to say otherwise?”

They hear him shuffling things around in the kitchen, note the clinking of glasses and the telltale sound of drinks being poured, and soon Richie returns to them, ladened with a tray carrying nine shot glasses, all filled to the brim.

“C’mon, c’mon, step up, step up!” Richie cries in his street vendor Voice, holding the tray out for each of them to grab their shot. Beverly goes to down hers in an instant, but Richie spots her before she can. “ _Ah ah ah!_ We have to make a toast first, eager beaver,” he chastises, shaking his head in mock disappointment, and Beverly flips him off as the rest of them chuckle. Richie turns to his right. “Billy Boy, care to do the honors?”

Bill nods. “S-Sure…” He looks around at all of them, taking in their bright faces, some of them still flushed from the chilly air outside, and he smiles warmly. “I honestly think anything I c-could come up with about all of us, this group, would be a huge understatement. I’m pr-proud to be standing here with all of you on the cusp of a new year, to st-start all over again with all of you. I think everyone here has some stuff they wanna l-l-leave in 1992,” he feels Stanley squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back, “and that’s where we all come in. To help each other with the stuff that c-carries over, and to be there when we face things to come. I love all of you,” Bill promises, and no one in the room misses the lack of tremor in that sentiment. He raises his shot in front of him, extending his hand into the center of the circle. “Here’s to what’s to come.”

Bill’s smile catches like wildfire, rippling through the circle of friends until it infects every last one of them. Beverly is the first to mimic Bill, raising her glass proudly. Ben and Kate follow suit, the latter resting her cheek against her girlfriend’s shoulder. Richie wraps his arm around Eddie as both boys raise their shots as well, and Nick and Mike share a timid glance before doing the same. Stanley is the last to raise his glass, and while his lip wobbles slightly, his hand is perfectly steady. The nine of them bump their glasses together messily, and the spell is broken as Beverly throws her head back, downing her shot in seconds as Richie whoops loudly, following her lead.

Bill turns to his boyfriend after both of them have finished their drinks and he bumps his shoulder against Stanley’s. “You okay, honey?” he whispers, and Stanley nods at him.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he swears, giving a small smile. “As always, your way with words is unmatched,” he compliments, and Bill turns pink. “Thank you.” Stanley leans over to kiss his cheek firmly and Bill wraps his arms around the taller boy’s waist as Beverly resurfaces from her second shot.

“Who’s DD this time around?” she wonders, eyes flickering around the room. Nick raises his hand tentatively.

“I’ll do it,” he volunteers, and she cocks her head to side.

“You sure?” she questions, and he nods quietly in response. Nick doesn’t much care for drinking anyway - he doesn’t like to do it during football season in case he ever gets drug-tested, and he’s heard one too many horror stories of drunken sailors tumbling off their boats to turn him off of the stuff for good. Plus, the last time he let himself get drunk was at the bonfire, and he’d nearly ruined any chance he stood with Mike that night, so he isn’t exactly itching for a potential replay of those events. Mike catches his eye and smiles at him encouragingly, and Nick feels his chest ease up a bit as Richie makes a beeline for the karaoke machine.

“Who’s up first!” he cries, waving the microphone around, and before anyone can even think to respond, he sighs, “Well, gosh - if no one wants to go first, I guess it’ll have to be me…”

“Lucky us…” Ben mutters as Richie rifles through the CDs, searching for a karaoke track with enough grandeur to kick-start this party properly. He lets out a triumphant cry when he lands on one of them, and Ben groans. “Oh, God, I can only imagine what this is gonna be…”

“Have faith, Benjamin!” Richie insists as he pops the disk into the karaoke machine before splaying himself dramatically across the top of the baby grand piano settled in the corner of Kate’s living room beside the television as the opening chords of Billy Joel’s _Piano Man_ fill the room.

“You’re never one for subtlety are you, Tozier?” Kate chuckles, but she is already swaying slightly to the music, her shoulder bumping against Beverly’s, whose shaking her head at Richie as he lies back on the piano before he starts to sing.

 _It's nine o'clock on a Saturday_  
_The regular crowd shuffles in_  
_There's an old man sitting next to me  
__Makin’ love to his tonic and gin_

Even Stanley has to admit that Richie’s impersonation of Billy Joel is quite impressive as he bellows out the classic tune, sitting up to throw his arm around Bill, and he sings the next verse directly to him, gesturing wildly to the piano bench for Bill to take a seat.

 _He says, "Son, can you play me a memory?_  
_I'm not really sure how it goes_  
_But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete  
__When I wore a younger man’s clothes”_

Bill leaves his microphone on the couch and starts to play along with the karaoke track, his fingers gliding effortlessly over the keys in perfect time as this is one of his mother’s favorite songs and also one of the first he learned to play. Richie beams at him from where he’s still lying atop the piano, belting out the chorus while their friends crowd around them as Bill joins in quietly.

 _Sing us a song, you're the piano man_  
_Sing us a song tonight_  
_Well, we're all in the mood for a melody  
__And you’ve got us feelin’ alright!_

Richie slides off the piano then in favor of wedging himself between Ben and Eddie, slouching to rest his cheek against the latter’s shoulder while he tosses his arm around Ben’s middle. He begins to move side-to-side, forcing the other two boys to sway along with him as he croons into the microphone.

 _And the waitress is practicing politics_  
_As the businessmen slowly get stoned_  
_Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness  
__But it’s better than drinkin’ alone!_

“Here, here!” Beverly shouts, raising her glass with a nod in Richie’s direction as the boy barrels on through the rest of the number, bringing it to a close by flopping back onto the piano and nearly toppling off the other end. Bill laughs so hard that he snorts and then immediately flushes a light pink as their friends all burst into cheers. Richie pops back up to take his bows and then hoists Bill up beside him, knotting their fingers together so that they can both bow together.

“I didn’t know you could play, Denbrough,” Nick comments, and Bill shrugs.

“My m-mom had me take lessons as a kid,” he explains bashfully.

“And thank goodness she did!” Richie crows. “I don’t know what I’d do without you backin’ me up, Billy Boy!” he promises, throwing both of his arms around his best friend and kissing his cheek sweetly.

“Gee, thanks, Rich,” Bill chuckles, hugging him back before turning to face the rest of the group. “Wh-Who wants to follow that lavish display?”

“I think I will,” Mike muses quietly, a small smile on his face, and Beverly lets out a quiet _oooh_ under her breath, her eyes flickering from Mike to Richie and back. He holds his hand out for the microphone and Richie drops it into his open palm.

“Let’s hear what you’ve got, Mikey Mike,” Richie grins, clapping him on the back before taking a seat on the arm of the sofa. He pulls Eddie into his lap, winding his arms around his waist, and kisses his shoulder as Mike sits on the piano bench to dig through the CDs until finding one that makes his face light up. “Ooh, whatcha find in there?”

“Surprise, Rich,” he answers. “For later,” he insists, and they lock eyes briefly, Richie nodding silently in response. “I think… I’ll go… with this one for now,” he decides, removing _Piano Man_ and replacing it with his choice now. Another ballad begins quietly, the music building, and Stanley is the first one to recognize the song, letting out a quiet gasp as he squeezes Bill’s hand tightly. Bill squeezes back, a watery smile already dawning on his face as he listens to his friend. Mike’s voice is strong, it’s deep and warm and it fills the entire room, spreading over all of them as he sings.

 _Let's dance in style, let's dance for a while_  
_Heaven can wait we're only watching the skies_  
_Hoping for the best, but expecting the worst  
__Are you gonna drop the bomb or not?_

Richie recognizes the song, too, and his grip on Eddie tightens as he lets his eyes close, breathing in slowly as Eddie leans back against his chest, reaching up blindly to thread his fingers through Richie’s curls and scratch lightly at his scalp. Richie turns his head into the crook of his boyfriend’s throat and kisses his jaw gently, humming along quietly so only Eddie can hear, the sound of Mike’s voice overpowering it almost completely.

 _Let us die young or let us live forever_  
_We don't have the power, but we never say never_  
_Sitting in a sandpit, life is a short trip  
__The musti’c for the sad man_

Ben wipes sharply at his nose, sniffling into the sleeve of his shirt as he blinks away the tears that he’d stopped bothering to conceal after the first verse. He feels someone reach for his hand where it’s resting on his knee, and when he looks down, he smiles to see the familiar paint-stained fingers of Beverly Marsh wrapping around his own. Her anchor ring digs a bit into his palm, but he doesn’t mind, and when he looks up to find her ice-blue eyes, they’re red-rimmed and glassy, her own freckled face lined with tears. Her head is resting on Kate’s shoulder, and the younger girl smiles through Beverly’s curls over at Ben, blowing him a kiss that he catches and tucks safely into the breast pocket of his shirt, making both girls smile fondly at him before returning their gazes to Mike. Ben mimics them, eyes landing on his friend as he sings about wanting to stay young, and Ben thinks he’s never understood a feeling more in his life.

 _Can you imagine when this race is won?_  
_Turn our golden faces into the sun_  
_Praising our leaders, we're getting in-tune  
__The mustic’ played by the, the madman_

Nick has never really had to chase after anything in his life. His father’s business has always been successful, ensuring that the pair of them never had to worry about a roof over their heads or food on their table. Sailing and football have always come naturally to him, so he didn’t really have to work all that hard to win the competitions he did or even to make it onto the football team. He’s never once taken any of this for granted, but it wasn’t until he met Mike Hanlon that he realized just how much he wasn’t used to wanting for something, for _anything_ the way he wants to be with Mike. He watches the older boy now, singing his heart out, a leisurely, carefree smile on his handsome face, and Nick feels his heart ache in his chest as he thinks about how far they’ve come, how much he’s worked to keep Mike in his life. _Can you imagine when this race is won?_ He certainly can. He wonders if Mike can too as he loses himself in his voice, unable to stop a smile that he is sure is much too adoring from spreading across his face when Mike breaks into the chorus.

 _Forever young_  
_I want to be forever young_  
_Do you really want to live forever?  
__Forever, and ever..._

Mike’s eyes are closed as he sings, but he can still hear his friends sniffling now and again; he is sure if he were to open them, he would start to cry, too. Mike is not ashamed of tears, he does not hide his emotions, not from anyone and especially not from the people crowded into this room with him, his best friends, but he does not want to cry right now. Between the loss of his parents and the struggles that come with being a black boy in a town like Derry, Mike Hanlon thinks that at the ripe age of 17, he’s just about cried out. No, he does not think now is the time for tears, not when he’s surrounded by the people he loves most in the world, not when they should be celebrating the start of a new year together. Mike did not pick this song to cry to, but rather to let every single person in this room know that he wants nothing more than to be here, right here, with them. His eyes open slowly as the song draws near its end, and he finds Nick’s instantly. He’s glad the others are in the room, but for a moment, everything else but Nick’s eyes fade away.

 _So many adventures given up today_  
_So many songs we forgot to play_  
_So many dreams swinging out of the blue  
__Oh, let it come true..._

Nick looks away when he feels his hands start to shake, and he is grateful when the song comes to an end because it gives him an excuse to clap them together, hopefully jolting some feeling back into his fingertips.

“God, Mikey was out for blood with that one!” Richie cries, dabbing unashamedly at his own wet eyes. “I think I filled my crying quota for 1993 already!” Mike shoves his shoulder playfully, but he’s blushing at the sentiment and he takes a modest bow when Beverly refuses to let up on her hollering until he acknowledges her, jumping over the coffee table to plant a kiss on the top of her head, grabbing hold of her face with both his hands so that the microphone bops her temple gently, the noise it makes sounding throughout the room and drawing chuckles from everyone else.

“Hey, Bill,” Eddie suddenly calls once the commotion has died down. “You up for another duet?” Bill quirks his brow at his friend from where he’s still sitting beside Stanley.

“Wh-What’d you have in mind, Eds?” he asks as Eddie squirms out of Richie’s embrace to pick up the stack of CDs, rifling through them until he finds the one he was looking for, smiling down at the case and showing it to Bill while being sure to conceal the title from the rest of their friends. Bill smiles. “It’d be an honor, buddy...” He takes the disk from Eddie and switches it out for the one in the machine before sitting down once more at the piano, fingers poised over the keys while Eddie catches the microphone thrown to him by Mike. Eddie looks off to his left and finds Richie with his chin propped on his knees, peering at him with a soft smile on his face. Richie winks at him quickly, his smile morphing into a smirk when he sees Eddie turn tomato red and look away bashfully just as Elton John’s _Your Song_ starts to come through the speakers. Richie sucks in a sharp breath as Bill takes the first verse.

 _It's a little bit funny this feeling inside_  
_I'm not one of those who can easily hide_  
_I don't have much money but boy if I did_  
_I'd buy a big house where we both could live_  
_If I was a sculptor but then again, no_  
_Or a man who makes potions in a traveling show  
__Oh, I know it’s not much, but it’s the best I can do..._

He catches Eddie’s eye then, wordlessly passing the song off to him, and Eddie accepts it graciously, locking eyes with Richie from across the living room as he sings.

 _My gift is my song and this one's for you_  
_And you can tell everybody this is your song_  
_It may be quite simple but now that it's done_  
_I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind_  
_That I put down in words how wonderful life is  
__While you’re in the world..._

Richie is trying his damnedest to keep it together in front of the rest of the group, but hearing his best friend and the love of his life sing _this_ is enough to just about kill him. He isn’t even aware that he’s shaking until he feels his knees knock together, and then Eddie is beside him, coiling one of his arms around Richie’s waist to draw him close to his side. Bill has also abandoned his post at the piano in favor of cuddling up to Richie’s opposite side, winding his arm around the boy as well as both he and Eddie sing this verse directly to Richie.

 _I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss_  
_Well, a few of the verses - well, they've got me quite cross_  
_But the sun's been quite kind while I wrote this song  
__It’s for people like you that keep it turned on..._

Eddie presses a tender kiss to Richie’s brow as the other boy weeps, tucking his head into Eddie’s shoulder while gripping Bill’s sleeve tightly in his shaking fist. Bill curls around his best friend, hugging him tightly as he and Eddie continue to sing, and soon the rest of the group is surrounding them, all wrapping their arms around each other, around Richie, and Richie feels like his heart might very well explode in his chest.

 _And you can tell everybody this is your song_  
_It may be quite simple, but now that it's done_  
_I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind_  
_That I put down in words how wonderful life is  
__While you’re in the world..._

When the song fades out, Richie, in true Trashmouth fashion, is the first to speak.

“No more tear-jerkers!” he decrees, though he makes no effort to unlatch himself from Eddie’s side. “This is a party! I’ve already cried three times, you heathens!”

“Aw, baby,” Eddie chuckles, hugging him to his chest. “You’re just an emotional wreck,” he comments, “let it out…”

“I am _not!_ ” Richie argues. “Only a heartless cyborg could withstand their boyfriend and best friend singing a love song by our gay Lord and Savior, Elton John, and _not_ bawl their eyes out!”

Eddie blinks, dumbfounded. “Hold on,” he says slowly. “Elton John is gay?”

Beverly nearly chokes on her shot, and Kate pats her back sharply until she coughs.

“Eds, are you for real?” Stanley balks while Mike and Nick chuckle quietly at the look of downright betrayal in Richie’s eyes.

“Eddie…” Richie tuts, shaking his head. “Isn’t that the _first thing_ you learn out of the womb? Welcome to the world, Elton John is gay!” Bill snorts again and Eddie blushes.

“Not in my house,” he mumbles. “Or did you all forget who my mother is?” Richie’s nose wrinkles.

“Right,” he nods, pulling Eddie to his side. “Well, good thing you’ve got all of us now, Spaghetti-Man! Fret not, we’ll show you the great wide world of queer musicians,” he sighs dramatically, looking off over his boyfriend’s head, eyes glassy and unfocused as Eddie shakes his head with a laugh. “And speaking of queer musicians, I do believe it’s time for some Freddie…”

 _“Yes,”_ Beverly cries, pumping her fist in the air as Richie makes a mad dash for the CD pile.

“As you all know,” he begins, “we simply cannot have karaoke without at _least_ one Queen song… And seeing as I did a rousing rendition of _Don’t Stop Me Now_ at our last shindig and brought down the house,” Nick and Ben roll their eyes as Richie continues on, “I don’t think it’d be fair for me to go solo again quite so soon… _So,_ ” he pauses for dramatic effect before holding the case in his hand, twirling it around so that they can all see the album art for _Bohemian Rhapsody,_ “group number?”

His friends all nod, muttering variants of agreement, and Richie claps his hands together before tossing the disk into the karaoke machine and turning the volume all the way up. “Alright, everybody now!”

 _Is this the real life?_  
_Is this just fantasy?_  
_Caught in a landslide,  
__No escape from reality..._

Richie makes a huge show of conducting his friends, waving his fingers around to match the tempo of the music as they begin to harmonize. He beams brightly when Beverly, Eddie, and Kate opt to hit the lower notes while the rest of the boys choose to up the octave, singing entirely out of their range and most certainly off-key. “Beautiful!” Richie shouts, unable to contain his laughter when Mike and Stanley both drop to their knees dramatically for the chorus, reaching to hold onto each other’s arms as Bill and Nick are nearly doubled over in laughter but still managing to keep up with the song. Everybody begins to break off on their own as the song begins to pick up speed, and soon they are all jumping around the living room, some of them leaping from sofa to loveseat and back as they shout the lyrics to the heavens.

 _So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye?_  
_So you think you can love me and leave me to die?_  
_Oh, baby, can't do this to me, baby!  
__Just gotta get out, just gotta get right outta here!_

They are all slumped all over the living room by the time the song draws to a close, all of them cheering for each other but none so loudly as Richie, who is hard-pressed to keep the grin on his flushed face from swallowing him whole as he looks around the room at all of his friends. His eyes land last on Ben, who is sitting directly across from him, and he nudges the other boy’s foot with his own.

“Benny the Kid, I think it’s time for your solo number,” he winks, wiggling his eyebrows at Ben, but the other boy is shaking his head quickly.

“No, no, no,” he fights, waving his hands. “I don’t think so, Tozier…”

“Oh, c’mon, Haystack!” Richie pleads. “We’re all pals here! No one’s gonna laugh atcha!” he promises, and Ben is touched by how genuine he sounds when he says that, knowing that Richie knows better than anyone that laughter is only fun when everyone is in on the joke.

“Sorry, pal,” Ben states firmly, and Richie pouts.

“But -- !”

“Oh, leave him be, Tozier,” Beverly says this lightly, but anyone who truly knows her can recognize the no-nonsense tone to her words, the part of her that rears its head when she thinks someone around her might be uncomfortable doing something. “He doesn’t have to do it if he doesn’t want to…”

“I know,” Richie concedes, shoulders slumping a bit. “I just figured it’d be fun, is all…” Beverly bumps her hand against Richie’s arm to let him know she isn’t mad at him, and he perks up instantly, turning back to Ben. “Bev’s right, Haystack - you don’t have to if you don’t want to…”

“Maybe at the next party…” Ben relents, smiling over at the other boy, and Richie gasps.

“You promise?!” Richie cries, pointing his finger at the other boy. “You’ve been holdin’ out on us, Benjamin - don’t think we forgot that little Whitney tease you gave us at the bonfire!” Ben blushes at the memory and crosses his fingers over his heart. 

“Swear,” he says. “The next party, I’ll go solo…”

“Yes!” Richie pumps his fist in the air just as Beverly gets to her feet.

“Then I guess it’s my turn,” she decides, snatching the pile of disks from the coffee table, mulling over a few of the titles before finally making a choice. She pops it into the karaoke machine and says into the microphone, “This one’s for you, Hanscom,” before sending a wink in his direction and bursting into song.

 _My baby, he don't talk sweet_  
_He ain't got much to say_  
_But he loves me, loves me, loves me  
__I know that he loves me anyway_

Beverly perches herself on the arm of the couch where Ben is sitting and leans against his side, propping her elbow on his shoulder while she plays with his hair, and she feels completely at ease. She knows that this might seem bold to anyone not a part of their tight-knit little group, but as Ben barrels over into a fit of laughter and grabs her hand to kiss it, she is almost glad that not everyone in the world would understand the relationship she has with Ben Hanscom. She knows Kate understands; she looks over at her girlfriend then, just to be sure, and sees nothing but a loving smile on her beautiful face as she watches the two of them interact, and Beverly wonders how she got so lucky, how she could possibly have found someone who isn’t jealous of the closeness she treasures with all of her boys, especially Ben.

 _And maybe he don't dress fine_  
_But I don't really mind_  
_Because every time he pulls me near  
__I just want to cheer_

Beverly gets the whole crowd going then, gets them all to start clapping (Richie attempts to clap off-beat before Stanley threatens bodily harm), and she drags Ben to his feet so that she can dance with him. He lifts her off her feet to spin her around as she sings, the words almost getting drowned out by her squealing laughter.

 _Let's hear it for the boy_  
_Let's give the boy a hand_  
_Let's hear it for my baby_  
_You know you got to understand_  
_Whoa, maybe he's no Romeo_  
_But he's my lovin' one-man show_  
_Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa  
__Let’s hear it for the boy!_

Kate doesn’t see Beverly as her property, and she never will, and she knows that this is nothing more than a friend playing with a friend. She has never really been a jealous person anyway, and she sees no reason to start now, especially when she knows that she trusts Beverly more than she trusts anyone, herself included. She knows how she feels about Beverly, and she is sure she knows how Beverly feels about her, so honestly? Kate feels honored to witness such a display of love and friendship with her own eyes, in her home where this kind of affection is often only imagined, longed for, dreamt. Watching her girlfriend dance around the room with one of the few boys in her life that has never and will never hurt her is a gift in of itself, and Kate has to fight back tears as she feels them welling up in her eyes.

Ben thinks he’s just about the luckiest guy on earth to be loved by somebody like Beverly Marsh in any capacity, even if it’s not the same way that he loves her. Ben knows that love exists in many forms and that just because the way someone loves you doesn’t align with the way you love them, that doesn’t mean that both of those loves cannot be important, are not both valid. He knows he loves Beverly, knows he would give her anything she asked of him, and so he gives her his friendship, because that’s what she asks. Nothing more or less, and he’s happy to be a friend to her. Lord knows she has needed a friend like Ben Hanscom, and he is content just knowing that he can be there, that he can be someone who makes her realize that opening yourself up to someone is scary but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth it, that he can be a boy who is kind and soft and gentle, a boy that would never dream of hurting her. Ben knows the rest of the Losers feel the same way, that they all made a silent pact long ago to be Beverly Marsh’s own personal standing army, poised to fend off any threats that might come here way. But after knowing her, after loving her, Ben knows better than any of them that an army, that an entire battalion exists inside Beverly Marsh, and that she can do her own saving. But what Ben doesn’t know is that the knowledge that he’s always there in her corner, that they all are, that is what keeps Beverly upright and moving on her worst days. They keep her fighting.

 _Maybe he's no Romeo,_  
_But he's my lovin' one man show_  
_Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa  
__Let’s hear it for the boy!_

Beverly throws her arms around Ben in a fierce hug when the track cuts to silence, and he feels a few tears splash onto his shoulder. He hugs her close to his chest, lifting her off her feet again, and she kicks her feet playfully, laughing, “Put me down!” He immediately does. “Don’t let the other boys know you’re my favorite, yeah?” she says at a perfectly normal speaking level, ensuring that everyone in the room hears her, and Richie gasps.

“Hey! No favorites!” Eddie shouts as Bill flops onto the sofa, pretending to be mortally wounded as Stanley feigns sobbing into Mike’s shoulder, who is wiping away imaginary tears of his own. Ben chuckles and hugs Beverly to his side again before releasing her, and she plops into Kate’s lap, kissing her cheek.

“Oh, reign it in, fellas,” Beverly sighs after a moment of letting them carry on, and Kate laughs loudly as she toys with the collar of Beverly’s turtleneck. “There’s enough of me to go around…”

“I didn’t know you were into that, Bevs,” Richie says, and the entire room groans.

“I’m not even going to deign to _beep beep_ that one, Tozier,” Stanley sighs, shaking his head in disgust. “Just know I’m disappointed in you…”

“Why, who could ask for anything more, Staniel?” Richie cries, popping to his feet to snatch the microphone from Beverly before holding his elbow out to her. “Would the lady care to join me for a duet?”

“After _that_?” Beverly shouts, eyebrows raised so high they nearly blend into her hairline.

“Personally, my heart is set on _Grease,_ but really, it’s up to you…” Beverly’s eyes narrow the longer she peers at her friend and she points at him slowly.

“Only if I get to be Danny,” she demands, and Richie’s face falls.

“Absolutely not!” he yells. “I am the Once and Future Danny Zuko! No one else can replicate those iconic hip thrusts so accurately!”

“I beg to differ,” Kate mutters, and she and Nick high-five wordlessly while the rest of the group chuckles at Richie and Beverly’s bickering.

“You got to be Danny at Halloween!” Beverly reminds, arms flailing wildly.

 _“So!”_ Richie shouts back, arms folded across his chest like a child.

“So it’s my turn now!”

“No!”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Mike intervenes, stepping between the two of them. “Simmer down, children. Why don’t we vote?” he suggests. “Who thinks Bev should be Danny?” Every hand in the room save for Richie’s shoots into the air. He gasps.

 _“Eddie!”_ he whines. “You’re supposed to be on my side!” Eddie shrugs.

“Sorry, baby. This is only fair - ‘sides, you can practice your Sandy Voice!” Eddie reminds sweetly, and Richie pouts.

“Don’t try to seduce me with _logic,_ ” he shudders. “Ugh, _fine._ I suppose for this _one singular performance,_ Beverly can be Danny…” She smirks and punches the PLAY button on the karaoke machine with her finger, hips already swaying to the beat of _You’re the One That I Want._

 _I got chills, they’re multiplyin’_  
_And I’m losin’ control_  
_‘Cause the power you’re supplyin’  
__It’s electrifyin’!_

Richie, for all his moaning and groaning about having to give up being Danny, is a surprisingly convincing Sandy. He bats his eyes at Beverly as he dances around her, puckering his lips ridiculously in a way that not even Beverly can keep a straight face over, her laughter getting the best of her just before they both start in on the chorus.

 _You’re the one that I want_  
_You are the one I want_  
_Hoo hoo hoo, honey!_  
_The one that I want_  
_You are the one I want  
__Hoo hoo hoo, honey!_

While Beverly croons to Kate, playing with one of her loose curls, Richie turns to his boyfriend for the next verse, sprawling himself out across Eddie’s lap as he sings, voice low and sultry, and Eddie is doing all he can to look anywhere but back into his eyes, choosing instead to admire the plant in the far corner of the living room.

 _If you’re filled with affection_  
_You’re too shy to convey_  
_Meditate my direction  
__Feel your way..._

Beverly and Richie bring their number home with a perfect rendition of the dance from the movie, much to the whole room’s joy. Everyone stomps their feet and claps their hands and Beverly turns to Richie and hugs him, identical smiles on both of their faces. Richie holds one of his hands out, a silent request that Beverly immediately responds to, and they break into their handshake, the routine even more elaborate than the Losers remember it being the last time they witnessed it.

“How the fuck do you two manage to pull that off _drunk?_ ” Ben comments, and Richie smirks.

“Why, Benjamin, there’s a lot more complicated things I can pull off drunk,” he assures, and Stanley rolls his eyes when Beverly nods in agreement.

“You’re both fucking nuts,” Stanley sighs once they’re standing still again, or as still as the pair of them can manage to be.

“That’s why you love us,” Beverly challenges, and not a single person in the room is prepared to argue with her.

Karaoke has been in full swing since 11 P.M., and as the clock ticks closer to midnight, Mike has finally bucked up enough courage to do what he has been planning to do all night -- or, he thinks he has, at least.

Beverly and Kate are in the midst of a duet of Carole King’s _(You Make Me Feel Like A) Natural Woman,_ the pair of them serenading each other sweetly when Mike suddenly grabs a hold of Richie’s jacket collar and drags him out of the living-room. Richie, for once, stays completely silent -- that is, until they’re in the hallway.

“Oh, God, is it finally happening?” he gasps dramatically, fanning himself with an imaginary hanky. “Oh, Mikey, I -- I don’t know if I’m _ready --_ this is so fast, and I — ”

“Beep _beep,_ you fucking idiot,” Mike snaps in a whisper, his nerves putting him on edge, and Richie snaps his mouth shut for a moment when he sees that Mike actually looks scared. The expression looks alien on the older boy’s face and it makes Richie uneasy, so he does not stay silent for long.

“You know, Mikey, I’m _hurt,_ ” he insists, “I think I’m quite the catch!”

“Not even in your wildest dreams, Tozier,” Mike assures with half a chuckle, and Richie wiggles his eyebrows.

“Are you sure?” Richie wonders as the music lulls for a moment before it crescendos again, “Eds and I have an open-door policy -- ”

 _“No, we don’t!”_ Eddie shouts from the living room, somehow able to hear Richie over the sound of the karaoke machine. Mike’s eyes widen when he realizes they aren’t completely out of earshot of their friends, so he pulls Richie into the first room he can find, slamming the door behind them. He presses both of his palms flat against the threshold, resting his forehead to the door as he inhales deeply, and Richie places a cautious hand on his shoulder.

“Hey -- Mikey, you okay?” he breathes, unsure of exactly what to do, but Mike nods, and he feels the tightness in his own chest ease up when the older boy turns around.

“I’m scared, Rich,” Mike admits bashfully, and Richie cocks his brow curiously.

“Mikey, you know you don’t _have_ to do karaoke, right? You already went! And hell, Ben’s opting out completely -- ”

“It’s not _karaoke_ that I’m scared of, Rich,” Mike insists with a shake of his head. “I’m scared… to let my guard down, I guess? I don’t -- I don’t think Nick will hurt me, but you never know, and -- ”

“Whoa, whoa, _whoa,_ ” Richie says, clapping a hand on the side of his arm, “slow down there, tiger… _Guard?_ Mikey, I didn’t even know your guard was _up_ at all around the kid. It doesn’t seem that way to me,” he adds, and when Mike sputters sheepishly, a blush coloring his cheeks, Richie smirks knowingly. “Mhm… Exactly. This is just the nerves talking, Mikey. Everybody here wants this to go your way,” Richie promises and it’s Mike’s turn to look at him curiously.

“Everyone?” he prompts and Richie sighs.

“I love you, Mike. You’re one of my best friends and I wanna see you happy, and as much as he grinds my gears,” Richie stresses this last bit, but the look in his eyes lets Mike know this is Trashmouth talking, and Mike smiles fondly, glad to know the truth, that Richie is taking what he says to him so seriously that he’s falling into what makes him comfortable, his safety net, his jokes, “I’ve never seen you happier than you’ve been since Nick started comin’ around… This… what you’re feeling right now -- it’s a temporary, necessary evil to get you to where you wanna be. It sucks donkey dick, trust me, I know, but you’re gonna be so much happier if you push through it, and you deserve to be happy, Mikey. You do. There isn’t a person here who would argue with me on _that._ ”

Mike smiles warmly at Richie and grabs his shoulder tightly, shaking him a bit. “I love you, too, Richie,” he declares, and Richie beams, throwing his arms around his friend in a fierce hug that nearly knocks Mike back into the door. Both of them laugh, but Mike’s is cut short when he looks over Richie’s shoulder at the alarm clock sitting on what must be Kate’s father’s bedside table, 11:52 P.M. blinking at him in neon red. Mike feels his heart thump loudly in his chest, and because Richie is so close to him, he notices the change in his friend’s demeanor and follows his gaze, eyes landing too on the time.

“Only you know how you feel, Mikey,” Richie reminds gently, pulling back to look at the other boy, and he pats him twice on the cheek. “Only you can know if you want this or -- ”

“I _do_ want this,” Mike promises in a harsh whisper, and he slumps back against the door with a sad chuckle. “Jesus, I’ve wanted this practically since the moment I met Nick…”

Richie smirks then. “That’s pretty gay, Mikey.”

“Fuck you, Trashmouth,” Mike spats back with a grin, shoving Richie away from him. “Have you ever been afraid to do something even though you knew you wanted to do it?” Richie hums.

“Mikey, none of you were there with Eds and I when we finally sealed the deal at Sue’s,” Richie begins, eyes softening as he recalls that fateful early morning when he and Eddie finally stopped running from one another, “I probably looked like I was seconds from heaving up my dinner before I kissed him.”

“Oh, I’m sure Kaspbrak _loved_ that,” Mike jokes, and it’s Richie’s turn to shove him.

“My _point_ is,” Richie continues, “that yes, I have been afraid to do things before even though I wanted to do them. I think that just shows you care about the outcome. That it means something to you…” He looks at his friend over the frames of his glasses and Mike smiles down at his sneakers. He nods his agreement and Richie claps him on the shoulder. “C’mon, tiger - there’s only a couple minutes ‘til midnight and there’s a blond bombshell out there dying to be kissed.”

“Oh, I am _so_ telling Nick you called him a blond bombshell,” Mike threatens and Richie shrugs.

“Am I wrong?” he challenges and Mike grins as they find themselves back in the hallway, the sounds of their friends shouts like music to both of their ears. He can see Nick dancing to the song as it comes to an end; he is bumping his hip clumsily against Ben’s, who is swaying beside him, and Nick’s eyes are closed, his arms splayed out on either side of him. Beverly and Kate bring it home in a huge display, holding out the final note of the song much longer than Carole King probably ever intended, and the entire living room erupts into applause so loud it could have shattered the windows. Nick jumps up and down with the rest of them, his eyes bright as his smile stretches wide across his face, still tan even though it’s December, and Mike feels his heart skip about five beats in his chest.

“No, Rich,” he admits as he too brings his hands together to clap for the girls. “You’re not wrong.” Nick looks up at the sound of his voice, his smile only growing, and he sends a wink in the older boy’s direction that nearly stops Mike’s heart completely. “You are definitely not wrong…”

“Not wrong about what?” Eddie suddenly asks, looking at Richie curiously, but Richie waves the question away in favor of pulling the other boy into his arms. He leans in to kiss him, but Eddie pulls back. “No, I wanna know!” he protests, but before he can get an answer out of Richie, Stanley suddenly shushes them all, turning the television channels until he finds the footage of the New Years ball dropping in Times Square.

“It’s only two minutes ‘til midnight!” he shouts, and he is met with a chorus of cheers. Beverly blows into her noisemaker and tosses her arm around Kate’s shoulders, causing the drinks both of them are still holding to slosh around inside their cups, a few drops hitting the carpet. Ben punches Nick’s shoulder before moving to take a seat on the arm of the sofa, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning in towards the television. Bill comes up behind Stanley and wraps his arms around his waist, propping his chin on the taller boy’s shoulder after kissing his neck chastely, and he trains his eyes on the television as well, watching all of the people in New York City as the new year draws nearer. Mike shuffles so quietly over to where Nick has propped himself up against the piano in the corner of the room that the younger boy jumps when he looks up to find him right next to him.

“Miss me?” Mike asks, bumping their shoulders together, and Nick runs a timid hand through his curls, brushing them back and out of his eyes.

“Always,” he answers, his voice so soft it’s almost inaudible over all of the ruckus their friends are making. Beverly and Richie are stamping their feet wildly as Kate and Ben whoop and holler. Eddie, Bill, and Stanley watch on, bemused, until the chanting coming from the television grows louder, loud enough even to drown them all out.

_“Alright, ladies and gentlemen! Here we go! 59, 58, 57 -- !”_

“Another new year, huh?” Mike sighs, his hands fidgeting at his sides, his heart-rate picking up as their friends begin to countdown along with the announcer.

“Yeah,” Nick nods, nudging the toe of his boot into the carpet to distract himself, eyes trained downward, oblivious to the way Mike is looking at him now, but he can still feel the older boy’s dark eyes burning into him. “Crazy…”

“Crazy,” Mike agrees in a whisper.

 _“35, 34, 33, 32 -- !”_ Mike turns to look at the television for just a second, lets his eyes scan the room, taking in the sight before him, all of their friends gathered together, cheering, celebrating the turning of a new leaf, the start of something new. He looks back at the boy beside him, and he thinks that if he does not act now, he never will.

“Any goals for the new year?” he asks casually, leaning the small of his back against the piano, gaze never moving from the younger boy. Nick chuckles.

_“25, 24, 23, 22 -- !”_

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I’m pretty happy with how my life is going already…”

Mike’s brow furrows. “Oh, yeah?”

_“19, 18 -- !”_

“Yeah…” Nick whispers. “Aren’t you?”

_“14, 13 -- !”_

“Oh, there’s uh -- I’d say there’s definitely one thing I’m looking to change…” Mike relays, rubbing the back of his neck nervously, and Nick’s head snaps up like a marionette whose string had been jerked.

_“10, 9, 8, 7 -- !”_

“Mike…” he sighs, his lips barely moving as he looks at him, wide-eyed, and Mike meets his gaze, determined not to look away this time.

_“5, 4 -- !”_

Mike slides closer to him in an almost fluid-like motion, bringing his hand up to press his palm to Nick’s cheek, and the younger boy feels his eyes well up with tears as he sucks in a shaky breath.

_“3 -- !”_

Mike lets his forehead fall against Nick’s.

_“2 -- !”_

A single tear rolls down Nick’s cheek. Mike clears it away.

_“1!”_

Both boys surge forward at once, bringing their lips together in a fierce kiss, hands grappling for purchase, unable to resist the urge to hold one another now that they’ve allowed themselves this. Mike’s hands were already holding the younger boy’s face, and so he brushes his thumb along Nick’s cheek to rid him of the tears he can still feel splashing into the stretch of skin between his thumb and forefinger. Nick’s arms coil around the older boy, around his shoulders, and he stretches up on his toes to bring himself closer, as close as he can, revolted by the thought of even an inch between them now that there does not need to be. He has thought about this moment, daydreamed about it for weeks, _months_ , but nothing could have prepared him for the way he feels now that he’s actually in it, now that Mike is actually holding him and kissing him. He feels like he’s floating, like if Mike was not keeping his feet on the ground, he would drift off, up through the ceiling towards the stars hanging high in the sky outside. Standing there, kissing this boy, he feels like he’s already up there. He does not think he’ll ever want to come down again.

Mike separates their mouths gently, keeping his forehead pressed to Nick’s still, and they just stand there in silence for a moment, chests rising and falling in tandem as they stare into each other’s eye. Mike brushes his thumb over the younger boy’s lips and kisses the space between his brows so tenderly, Nick’s knees nearly buckle beneath him, and Mike smiles possibly the most serene smile the younger boy has ever seen on his face.

“Happy New Year,” Mike whispers, and Nick shakes his head in amazement, feeling positively lightheaded as he leans in for another kiss. He meets Mike halfway, pecking him sweetly on the lips once before pulling back playfully.

“Can’t have all our fun at once, can we?” he teases, and Mike chuckles.

“Oh, boy…” he sighs, hugging Nick close to him and tucking his head into his throat. “Just what have I gotten myself into?” Nick giggles again, settling comfortably into his arms, and he shrugs, saying nothing as he traces the lines on Mike’s shirt.

Beverly and Kate are the first to notice, the first of the other couples to separate, and the latter lets out a quiet gasp when she spots Nick and Mike wrapped up in one another’s arms. Beverly looks concerned for a moment, following her girlfriend’s gaze, and when her eyes land on her old friend and she sees the look on his face, the adoration in his eyes, she is sure her heart swells enough to burst through her rib cage. She turns back to Kate and bumps their foreheads together with a chuckle, smiling so wide her eyes are forced to close, and Kate kisses her again, winding her arms around Beverly’s shoulders to bring her closer. Beverly’s arms fit themselves around the other girl’s waist and she pulls her into her lap as she settles back into the sofa, never once breaking their kiss. Kate giggles against her lips, falling into the other girl’s arms with more care and ease than even she knew she was capable of after years of trusting other people to catch her. Kate is used to relying on that blind trust, on that hope that there will be hands waiting to keep her from crashing to the ground, but she has never trusted someone not to drop her the way she trusts Beverly Marsh.

Trust, for Beverly Marsh, is not so easy, has never been so simple, but Kate makes her feel like she’s capable of opening up to people who aren’t her lifelong friends, who aren’t her Losers, like it’s worth learning to trust people who have not known her before, during, _and_ after her father. Beverly remembers the first time she realized that Kate will never know a version of her where her father’s cruelty is any more than scar tissue, and even now, in this girl’s living room, months later, that simple thought is exhilarating, the idea that Kate saw her, saw _this_ Beverly Marsh with all of her bumps and bruises, and liked what she saw. There was no _in spite of_ or _because of_ , and that still gives Beverly butterflies, makes her want to hold fast to this incredible girl and never let her go.

Richie has fallen onto the love seat, bringing Eddie down with him as they slow from their frenzied, enthusiast first kiss of the new year to one that is much more tender. Eddie often feels like a puppet, strung up and made to dance for the people around him - his mother, his teachers, his tormentors - but the only time Eddie ever feels real is when he’s surrounded by his friends, when he’s being held by Richie. So he clings to him fiercely, especially now as they are both hurtled into a new year, not knowing what to expect or what’s in store for either of them, only that they will be there for one another through all of it, just as Bill said. Eddie has always had faith in Bill, this moment being no different, and yet still, he cannot seem to stop his hands from shaking where they’re twisted in Richie’s curls, drawing him as close to his chest as possible.

Richie is never afraid to be close to anyone, least of all Eddie, but he is much more cautious with his boyfriend than he thinks he ever has been in his life, and so Richie pulls back slightly when he feels Eddie starting to tremble, keeping their foreheads together as he peers warmly into Eddie’s eyes.

“Is everything okay, little lover?” he breathes, and Eddie hums, stroking his cheek sweetly as he smiles up at him before craning to kiss to corner of Richie’s mouth gently.

“Of course everything’s okay,” Eddie says simply, still a bit breathless. “I’m here with you, with all of our friends - nothing could be better,” Richie beams at that, and he coils his arms tightly around the smaller boy, kissing his throat chastely.

“You would tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn’t you?” Richie prompts quietly, rubbing circles into the small of Eddie’s back. Eddie thinks about the college applications they all have sitting on their desks at home, and nods mutely, not trusting his own voice. He doesn’t want to ruin such a perfect moment by his inability to not be morose at all times. Richie doesn’t push the issue, trusting him to speak up when he’s ready. “Okay...” he whispers, and Eddie feels him smile against his shoulder. “Hey, Eds?” he pokes his boyfriend’s side gently, and Eddie chuckles.

“Yes, Rich?”

“You’re my favorite boy in the world,” Richie promises, and Eddie buries his face in his boyfriend’s curls, throwing his arms around his shoulders. “You know that?” Eddie nods, turning to kiss his cheek, and Richie takes his face in his hands before kissing the tip of his nose. “Good.”

Stanley had whirled around in his boyfriend’s arms just moments before the ball finally dropped, bringing their lips together precisely at midnight, and all Bill could do was smile into the kiss, drawing his boyfriend further into his embrace as the shouts from the television are drowned out by the pounding of their hearts in their chests. Stanley whispers that he loves him and Bill thinks he might burst into tears; instead, he tightens his grip on the taller boy’s shoulders and presses even closer to him, sighing against Stanley’s lips, and he tells him that he loves him too, that he’s proud of him, that he loves him, loves him, loves him.

Stanley breaks away for a moment to catch his breath and Bill hugs him, his long arms finding their way around his waist, and they stand there in silence for a moment, swaying in each other’s grasp, before Bill looks over Stanley’s shoulder and finds Nick and Mike lost to one another, and the already present smile on his face grows even wider. He nudges Stanley’s side, jerking his chin in their direction, and Stanley chuckles quietly, resting his cheek against Bill’s shoulder. “Finally,” he whispers, and then he notices Ben. Bill follows Stanley’s gaze to where their friend is still sitting on the sofa, smiling around at all of them but still unable to mask the slight touch of sadness in his eyes.

“Get over here, you,” Bill orders lightly, gesturing for Ben to get to his feet, and Ben’s eyes widen. “C-C’mon, Ben - we won’t b-bite…” Richie looks up from where he’s wrapped around Eddie then.

“Only if you ask us to, Benji,” he teases, winking at the other boy, who flushes pink when Bill takes hold of his hand and pulls him to his side. Bill kisses his cheek sweetly, hugging him, and Stanley does the same, kissing his other cheek and tossing his arms around both Ben and his boyfriend. “Me next, me next!” Richie cries, pulling Eddie along with him, and the pair of them kiss both of Ben’s cheeks, who looks so overwhelmed in this moment that he might cry.

Nick and Mike are next, the pair of them hugging their friend so tightly between them that he nearly bursts, all three of them laughing as the new couple pecks Ben’s cheeks sweetly. Kate unravels herself from her girlfriend to stretch on her toes and kiss Ben’s cheek, and he hugs her close, ruffling her curls affectionately before turning to face Beverly, who cranes her neck to place her lips firmly to his forehead.

“Happy New Year, new kid,” she says, and he smiles down at her, the corners of his eyes wrinkling from the sheer force of it.

“Happy New Year, Beverly.” She beams up at him just as Richie tosses his arm around Ben’s shoulders and pulls him further into his space.

“We gotta find a nice gal for Benny the Kid,” he laments, pinching Ben’s cheeks. “Or a lad - we don’t discriminate here…” Ben rolls his eyes.

“No thanks, Rich…”  he says and Richie’s brow quirks curiously. Ben shrugs, a complacent smile adorning his face. “I don’t really mind being single all that much… I don’t want casual a relationship, and most people our age do. It makes sense and all - we’re young…” he explains, and a slow, fond grin works its way on Richie’s face as he listens to his friend speak. Richie loves Ben Hanscom so much, always does, but he especially loves him right now, loves his incredible, incredible heart. “I think I’ll stay single. I’m not _alone,_ you know?” Richie nods fervently at that, and Ben looks around at the rest of his friends, all of their eyes a tad watery. “I have all of you. I don’t ever feel lonely.” He knows he’s lying when he says that he isn’t lonely - Ben Hanscom is so familiar with the idea of loneliness that he’s certain he’d know it if he felt anything else. But he wants his friends to know that he loves them, is grateful for them, so he is pretty sure embellishment is alright in this case. “Honestly? I’ve never been happier. I don’t believe I need a romantic relationship _to be_ happy _.”_ That, Ben knows, is nothing but the truth. Bill reaches out towards Ben and runs his hand along his arm soothingly, in a way only he can, and Ben smiles at him before turning back to Richie. “But thank you, I appreciate the concern… It’s sweet, honest. And a little unexpected from you, Trashmouth…”

“I always gotta look out for my Heartsome Hanscom!” Richie cries, cradling Ben’s head to his chest and kissing the crown of his head the very same way he had on that first movie day back in Stanley’s basement two summers ago. “I love you, Haystack,” he says into Ben’s hair, and the other boy chuckles warmly.

“Love you, too, Rich.”

It does not take much longer for Richie to remind everyone of what they’d been doing prior to the ball-drop.

“Karaoke Round Two!” he cries, pumping his fist into the air, and Stanley groans.

“Are you even capable of silence?” he pleads, burying his face in Bill’s shoulder where they’re curled up on the floor, limbs tangled together. He had been half-asleep before Richie had begun to shout, pulling Stanley out of his stupor. “Some of us can’t go all night, Tozier…”

“Oh, I bet _that’s_ a lie,” Richie teases, a lewd grin stretching across his face, and Stanley yanks his shoe off of his foot to pelt it at his friend, who just narrowly ducks out of its path by diving into Eddie’s lap. “Besides,” he continues as if nothing happened, propping his chin on the heel of his hand once his elbow is resting on Eddie’s knee, “I do believe Mikey Mike had a special something saved for later.” He turns to catch Mike’s eye where he’s nestled beside Nick on the sofa. “It’s _later,_ Mikey,” he reminds playfully, and Mike gulps nervously.

“Right,” he nods. “Uh, Rich -- could -- could you help me with somethin’? In the other room?” Richie leaps to his feet, grinning in a way that has Eddie and Nick sharing a nervous glance.

 _“Absolutely,”_ Richie answers, and he and Mike hook arms before dashing out of the living room.

“I don’t like this,” Nick comments immediately once they’ve gone, and Eddie nods furiously.

“Nothing good is going to come out of this,” he whispers, forlorn, and Ben sighs as he pats both boys’ shoulders.

“At least we can all suffer together…” he laments, and Nick chuckles as he goes to take another sip of his water, but he nearly chokes on it when Richie re-enters the room with Mike following close behind. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ben laughs, “we’re doing _quick changes,_ now? This is getting fucking elaborate.”

Richie is wearing Kate’s leather jacket that is decidedly too small for him and therefore sits much higher on his hips than it should, his usual ripped black jeans, and he’s switched out his ratty, torn up _Aerosmith_ T-shirt in favor of a ridiculously low white V-neck he had brought to be his pajamas. Mike is also in a pair of black jeans and a leather jacket of his own, only he has nothing underneath it, and Nick has to tear his eyes away from his bare chest when he feels his face growing hot. Mike had done a lot of checking in the mirror and begged Richie to be honest with him when he asked, but none of his scars are visible with the jacket on. He doesn’t want this moment to be filled with worry over his past.

“Yes, Benjamin,” Richie insists, winking at Eddie, who has grown dangerously silent from the moment his boyfriend returned to the living room, and Richie’s smirk grows when Eddie lets out a quiet huff and looks sharply away, his cheeks flushing incriminatingly. In all the commotion, nobody notices Beverly and Kate sneak away as Richie passes the microphone off to the boy beside him. “Mikey Mike is gonna take the lead on this one, fellas,” he explains, and Mike tosses him the disk that he’d kept on him since he found it at the start of karaoke so that Richie can pop it into the machine. “A little birdie told me that somebody out in the crowd loves Def Leppard.”

“Oh, _no,_ ” Nick groans, head dropping into his hands as the intro to _Pour Some Sugar On Me_ comes roaring through the speakers. The rest of the group erupts into cheers, but Nick and Eddie both look like deer caught in a pair of headlights as Richie and Mike start to dance, the latter making a point to sing to every person in the room _except_ Nick, which is somehow _worse_ to handle. Richie flops into Eddie’s lap, crooning in his ear as Eddie turns fire engine red.

 _Love is like a bomb, baby, c'mon get it on_  
_Livin' like a lover with a radar phone_  
_Lookin' like a tramp, like a video vamp  
__Demolition woman, can I be your man?_

Mike finally catches Nick’s eye after he pulls Bill to his feet and twirls him around a few times, dropping his hand in favor of climbing onto the sofa to straddle Nick’s lap, the hand that isn’t holding the microphone finding its way into Nick’s loose curls. Nick puffs out a quiet breath of a sigh when Mike kneads the back of his neck, scratching lightly at the base of his skull, and it takes everything in him not to jolt forward and kiss him senseless, especially now that he knows he _can_ . Something glints in Mike’s eye for a moment, a silent question. _Is this okay?_ Nick smiles up at him reassuringly, puts his hands on Mike’s hips, and draws him closer.

 _Razzle 'n' a dazzle 'n' a flash a little light_  
_Television lover, baby, go all night_  
_Sometime, anytime, sugar me sweet  
__Little Miss Innocent, sugar man, yeah!_

Richie is having _way_ too much fun. He’s whipping his hair back and forth and wiggling around in Eddie’s lap, singing outrageously loud as he watches Mike cut loose for the first time in months. He, like everyone else in the group, had been starting to worry for their friend; ever since the bonfire, he’d started to draw inward a bit, started to keep more to himself despite always being around. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to piece together what was wrong, to figure out that Mike was trying to convince himself that he didn’t like Nick, that he couldn’t be with him, but now, watching him accept his feelings, embrace them, and to see them be requited fully, why, Richie could simply burst as he and Mike break into the chorus of the song.

 _Pour some sugar on me_  
_Ooh, in the name of love_  
_Pour some sugar on me_  
_C'mon, fire me up_  
_Pour your sugar on me  
__I can’t get enough_

“ _I'm hot, sticky sweet_ ,” Mike sings into Nick’s ear, voice pitched low, “ _from my head to my feet, yeah_ …” Nick lets out a groan and throws his head back against the sofa, his whole body going slack beneath Mike, and he hears Mike chuckle before he slides his arms around Nick’s middle, kissing softly behind his ear as Richie picks up the next verse.

 _Listen!_  
_Red light, yellow light, green-a-light go!_  
_Crazy little woman in a one-man show_  
_Mirror queen, mannequin, rhythm of love  
__Sweet dream, saccharine, loosen up!_

“Loosen up, Eds!” Richie cries as he squirms in his boyfriend’s lap, linking their fingers together so that he can wave both of their arms high over their heads. Eddie is trying very hard to keep his face straight, unamused, indifferent, but he’d be lying if he said that this look wasn’t completely doing it for him. Richie _always_ looks good, even disshevled and wearing a stupidly loud patterned button-down - it’s an infuriating fact of life that Eddie has had to accept from effectively the moment they met - but now, in Kate’s living room, face flushed from alcohol and karaoke with his hair in an absolute state of emergency, the shoulders of his borrowed leather jacket sliding down to rest mid-bicep and the neckline of his shirt plunging dangerously close to his abdomen, Eddie thinks he’s never looked more beautiful. He wraps his hand around the collar of his leather jacket and tugs him forward, sealing their lips together in a messy kiss, and Richie drops the microphone onto the sofa, abandoning it in favor of knotting his hands in Eddie’s hair to kiss him back, leaving Mike to finish the song up on his own.

 _You gotta squeeze a little, squeeze a little_  
_Tease a little more_  
_Easy operator come a knockin' on my door_  
_Sometime, anytime, sugar me sweet  
__Little Miss Innocent, sugar me, yeah, yeah..._

Nick isn’t sure he’s going to survive until the end of this performance; he is already silently cursing Def Leppard for writing such long songs by the time Mike reaches the bridge, positive that his heart might just give out when the older boy throws his head back to shout, _“Do you take sugar?! One lump or two?!”_ and is met with loud cheers from the rest of their friends while Nick struggles to keep his jaw from coming unhinged. Ben is whistling loudly while Bill stomps his feet, dancing around the room with Stanley, who is now wide awake from all the commotion. Eddie and Richie are still wrapped up in each other, a mess of limbs on the loveseat, impervious to the noise around them and aware of only each other as the song draws to a close with a cry of, _“Sugar me!”_ from Mike that Nick swears goes right through him, sparking every last nerve in his body.

“Holy shit,” he gasps, panting even though he wasn’t the one who just belted out a five minute song, and he stares up at Mike, wide-eyed. Mike smiles bashfully down at him, looking incredibly innocent given the performance he just gave, and Nick can do nothing but shake his head in amazement. “Not even together a whole hour and you’re already trying to kill me…” Mike chuckles deep in his chest, his whole body quaking with it, rolling through him like thunder, and to Nick it sounds like a perfect storm.

“Never,” Mike teases, winding his arms around Nick as he drops all of his weight into the boy’s lap, cuddling up against his chest after kissing the corner of his mouth. Nick hugs him back happily, nosing his way into Mike’s throat as he breathes him in. “Did I do Joe Elliott justice?” Nick snorts and nods against the other boy’s shoulder, feeling his cheeks start to burn.

“Absolutely,” he promises, and Mike grins, looking up just in time to see Kate and Beverly stow back into the room. Mike furrows his brow at Beverly, at her slightly tousled hair and the unmistakable mark blooming on what little bit of Kate’s collarbone is exposed, and Beverly simply winks in his direction. He shakes his head with a chuckle before repositioning himself in Nick’s lap so that he can face the rest of the group.

“What did we miss, boys?” Beverly wonders, and Richie finally comes up for air, separating from Eddie at last.

“Only the greatest performance of Mikey Mike’s career!” he insists, and Mike’s face is a kaleidoscope of different colors as he blushes down at the floor while Nick kisses his cheek softly. “I provided some assistance, but really, it was all him. I got a little distracted,” Richie admits, tilting his head towards Eddie, who shoves him playfully, barely putting any distance between them before ultimately pulling him back into his space.

“Sorry we missed it, Mike,” Kate insists. “Care to relinquish the limelight?” she wonders, holding her hand out for the microphone, which he graciously passes over to her. Beverly perks up, bouncing in her place beside Ben.

“Ooh, what’re you gonna sing, Kay?” she asks, smiling brightly while she looks through the CDs. She gets through almost the entire pile before her eyes light up, and she whirls around to pass it off to Bill, who takes out Def Leppard to replace it with Kate’s choice. They all recognize the peppy beat immediately and smile as Kate starts to dance around the living room, just as energetic as this song calls for. She twirls around to stand behind the sofa and leans over it to where she’s resting her chin on Beverly’s shoulder, twisting one of her curls around her finger as she sings.

 _I used to think maybe you loved me, now baby I'm sure_  
_And I just can't wait till the day when you knock on my door_  
_Now every time I go for the mailbox, gotta hold myself down  
__‘Cause I just can’t wait ‘til you write me you’re comin’ around_

Beverly kisses her jaw and Kate lets out a gleeful laugh as Bill wolf-whistles from where he’s bopping in place beside Stanley. Kate then climbs a few steps, just as far as the cord will allow, and she leans just slightly over the railing, flipping her curls around so vivaciously she nearly sends the hairpiece clipped into her hair flying free.

 _I'm walking on sunshine (Wow!)_  
_I'm walking on sunshine (Wow!)_  
_I'm walking on sunshine (Wow!)_  
_And don't it feel good!_  
_Hey, alright now!  
__And don’t it feel good, hey!_

She descends the steps once again, jumping from the last one back onto the carpeted floor, and this time she sets her sights on Nick, pulling him out from beneath a cackling Mike to dance with him around the coffee table as he shouts the next verse along with her, feeling for the first time since they broke up that he’s sure she doesn’t hate him, that they’re better off as this, as two incredibly close friends who can drunkenly serenade each other and know that at the end of the night, the bond between them is still infallible even if it is not romantic.

 _I used to think maybe you loved me, now I know that it's true_  
_And I don't want to spend my whole life, just waiting for you_  
_Now I don't want you back for the weekend_  
_Not back for a day, no no no_  
_I said baby I just want you back  
__And I want you to stay..._

Kate isn’t used to being able to be her typical, bubbly self within the walls of her own home. Her father is much more reserved, a no-nonsense type of man, and so Kate has grown accustomed to stifling the parts of her that are too loud for her father in his presence, even if that means she has to hide those parts away for _anyone_  to see, not just her father. Here, though, in her living room with these eight equally loud, wild, loving souls, Kate feels like she’ll never have to hide again.

 _I feel the love, I feel the love, I feel the love that's really real  
_ _I'm on sunshine, baby!_

Everyone bursts into applause as Kate finishes strong and Nick tosses his arms around her in a tight hug, rocking both of them from side to side. She hugs him back just as fiercely, feeling just as safe in his arms then as she always did. Beverly leaps to her feet and joins in on the hug, snaking her arms around Kate’s waist and planting a quick kiss on her smiling lips that makes Kate erupt into a fit of giggles as she turns instead to hug her.

“A beautiful display, Tiny Dancer,” Richie muses, giving her a modest golf-clap while Eddie sends a double thumbs-up her way. “I give it a 10/10,” he insists, and Kate grins.

“Thanks, Tozier,” she replies, blowing him a kiss. He pretends to get smacked in the face with it, wipes it from his cheek, and stuffs it into his jacket pocket, pulling a genuine laugh from both her and Eddie. “Anyone else wanna go?” she asks, peering around the room at the crowd.

“Me!” Stanley cries, scrambling quickly to his feet and holding his hand out for the microphone. Bill’s eyes widen.

“You s-sure about that, honey?” he asks, and Stanley shoots a smile in his direction.

“Positive,” he affirms, giving a determined nod, and Kate chuckles as she gives the microphone to Stanley before sitting down between Beverly and Nick. Stanley changes CDs quickly, almost as if he had been secretly planning this all night, and Bill waits with bated breath for what he’s sure is going to be the death of him. When the intro to AC/DC’s _You Shook Me All Night Long_ starts to slowing fill the room and Stanley starts to sing, Bill knows he is right.

Stanley is easily the most composed of the group, and so it takes him that much longer to loosen up. Alcohol helps, sure, but he thinks it’s being around his friends that really brings out this side of him that very few people are lucky enough to see. Bill smiles from ear to ear, watching as his boyfriend sways around the room, spinning so much he nearly tangles himself up in the microphone cord. He dances his way over to where Bill is sitting and Bill throws his head back with a laugh when the taller boy deposits himself directly into his lap for the next verse.

Stanley gets back to his feet far too quickly for Bill’s liking and drags him with him, thrusting the microphone between them so they both can shout, _“And you shook me all night long!”_ and Richie whistles suggestively. Stanley flips him off extravagantly without breaking eye contact with Bill. He draws him closer by the belt loops of his jeans until their chests are touching, and they sway together as Stanley continues to sing, voice faltering momentarily when Bill’s hand slips just slightly up beneath Stanley’s shirt to rest on the small of his back.

“I love you,” Bill says quietly during the instrumental break in the song, and Stanley nearly explodes with laughter, needing to grab hold of his boyfriend’s arms to remain on his feet. “Wh-What’s so funny?”

“Only you could be so sweet when I’m trying to seduce you,” Stanley chuckles, and Bill hums, resting his head on the taller boy’s shoulder as he hugs him, scratching lightly at his back still as they both silently agree to let the song fade out.

“Isn’t that m-my job?” Bill asks. “Don’t you and Rich call me the g-gr-group’s designated angel?”

“Oh, you absolutely are an angel,” Stanley nods sternly, pulling back slightly so that he can tilt Bill’s chin upwards and kiss him, resulting in a chorus of _awww’s_ from their friends crowded around them.

“Hey! I think he’s an angel, too!” Eddie calls hotly. Bill chuckles against Stanley’s mouth as Beverly and Ben yell _“Yeah!”_ in unison.

“Okay, okay, there’s enough love for all of you, guys,” Bill smiles when they break apart. He shakes his head, wanting to be out of the spotlight a bit. He sits down and asks, “who’s next?”

“I think we’re all getting a little wiped out, but I’d like to do something a little more fun, if that’s cool,” Eddie says. “Maybe as a last hurrah.”

“Oh, absolutely, Eds! Kill it! Make ‘em weep!” Richie crows, pushing his boyfriend towards the front of the room. Eddie laughs and searches until he finds the disc he’d been looking for.

“A-ha!” He slips it in and the electric guitar of _Wild Thing_ by The Troggs starts up almost immediately.

“Ooh, the machine’s doing good,” Kate says, reaching over to pet it. “She’s warm.” Beverly laughs loudly and kisses her curls. Richie’s ears are ringing though as Eddie stands Richie up and begins stalking around him in a circle. He’s singing with a cheeky expression on his face and Richie wonders what he _ever_ did to deserve this.

 _Wild thing, you make my heart sing  
_ _You make everything groovy, wild thing_

“God, are these two just constantly battling it out for who’s gonna make the other lose it first every time we do karaoke?” Stanley groans as Eddie spins Richie in a tight circle and gets him tangled in the microphone cord. He’s trapped then in Eddie’s ensnarement and he’s pretty sure there’s no place he’d ever rather be. Eddie stands directly in front of Richie and sings the next verse that has Richie choking on air as the music drops out.

 _Wild thing, I think I love you_  
_But I wanna know for sure_  
_Come on and hold me tight  
__I love you..._

He simply mouths the last line, afraid to say it to Richie for the first time in a song, and Richie’s knees buckle as he falls back onto the couch, never breaking eye contact with Eddie as he does. Eddie smiles and bops him on the nose as he grabs a few streamers hanging from the ceiling to drape them across Richie’s chest and over his shoulders while he sings the chorus with a happy smile. Richie can’t help but grin back as the flute solo comes on and he pretends to play along with it, bopping excitedly in his seat. Beverly grabs one of the streamers off the banister and wraps it around Richie’s crooked arm and that gets everyone joining in, decorating Richie poorly and sloppily with absolutely no vision at all. Richie’s certain if he saw himself right now, he’d like the way he looks more than ever before with all his friends making him up and joking around with him joyfully.

Eddie flaps Richie’s arms around during this verse for him as he stresses the words _“Wild thing, I think you move me.”_ Richie laughs hysterically, eyes closing and back arching with the force of it. He’s so in love. He doesn’t think it’s legal to be this fucking in love. Well, it’s _not_ legal. But if they got ahold of the way Richie Tozier feels about Eddie Kaspbrak, they’d surely outlaw love for everybody. Nobody would be allowed to fall in love ever again because of how deeply Richie feels. He thinks that would suck - the world would suck without love. He thinks he’s pretty fucking drunk.

Eddie points the microphone down to his chest for _“You make my heart sing!”_ even though it drowns his voice out without amplification from the music playing with a tinny quality. Richie shakes his head, giggling madly as Bill wraps two party hats on either side of his head. The sounds are muffled then, but Richie can still hear the song fade out as he and Eddie dance around the room, Richie’s movements heavily impaired due to being caught in the mic wire and the sluggishness he’s beginning to feel in his limbs from intoxication. Everyone claps wildly for Eddie and for the creation they made out of Richie, and he smiles dopily at all of them.

“Y’all are so gross. I must look like a crazy person,” he chuckles, but they all know he loves the attention, especially when Mike grabs his camera from the kitchen and takes a photo of Richie smiling huge and cheesily.

“We just _love_ you, wild thing!” Beverly coos dramatically, hanging off his shoulder and pulling him down to the ground with the force of it. Everyone laughs as they go down. “What do you want from us?!”

“To stay exactly the same,” Richie promises with a smile. He looks up at the rest of them expectantly when Beverly curls around his shoulder and puts his arm around her waist. “Well?”

Everyone laughs and joins them on the ground, curling and cuddling and organizing themselves easily despite the alcohol in their systems and the only light in the room coming from the glow of the television since Kate turned the light off when she saw everyone begin to pile onto the floor. Eddie curls up on Richie’s other side, tucking his head into the other boy’s shoulder while he reaches over Richie’s head to thread his hand through Beverly’s messy curls. She laughs, turning to kiss the palm of his hand, and then she holds her arm open for Kate to cuddle up beside her, resting her cheek against Beverly’s shoulder. Bill flops onto the floor next, lying across Eddie’s midsection so that his head is resting on Richie’s stomach, and he brings Stanley down with him, pulling him against his chest and smiling up at the ceiling when Stanley kisses his jaw. He reaches his hand up towards Ben, who takes it happily, letting Stanley drag him down to the floor, their legs tangling together while Ben’s head rests against Eddie’s hip. Nick drops to the floor just beneath where Kate’s legs are bent, and he rests the back of his head on her legs, bringing Mike along so that all of them are wrapped around each other, a mess of arms and legs all braided together, all of their individual threads interwoven with each other.

Bill looks around at everyone, at these people that he loves with every ounce of his heart and soul, and he sighs, his eyes closing as he starts to quietly hum David Bowie’s _Heroes._ He feels Richie’s hand tighten where it rests against his shoulder when he recognizes the tune, and Bill runs his own hand through Stanley’s hair as he starts to sing the song that’s been stuck in his head for days in a whisper.

 _“Though nothing, nothing will keep us together,”_ he sighs, and he feels Beverly’s nails scratch at his scalp gently as he coos, _“We can beat them, forever and ever… Oh, we can be heroes just for one day…”_ He hears a soft whimper coming from his right, and he opens one of his eyes to watch as a tear rolls down Eddie’s cheek, his lip quivering, and Richie moves his hand from Bill’s shoulder to wrap instead around his boyfriend, rubbing his arm gently. Bill reaches out, too, for Eddie’s hand where it rests on Richie’s chest, and he wraps his fingers around Eddie’s as he breathes, _“We can be heroes just for one day… We can be us just for one day…”_

Bill doesn’t know that those very words are inscribed on Shawn Kaspbrak’s grave; the only two people in this room who know that are Eddie and Richie. Eddie almost starts to laugh through his tears, realizing that of all the people who could’ve sung this song, of course it would be Bill - sweet, kind, loving Bill who has been like a father to Eddie for as long as he can remember. Eddie squeezes Bill’s fingers once, letting a watery smile stretch across his face, and he sees Bill’s eyes soften then, glad for the silent confirmation that Eddie’s tears aren’t something he should worry over. Eddie knows Bill will worry anyway, and he supposes that’s just one of the reasons they all love him. Richie turns to kiss his forehead and Eddie relaxes in his arms, letting his eyes close as he finally lets his exhaustion overpower him, lets it spread throughout his body.

Mike lets out a yawn and burrows closer to Nick, nosing his way into his curls while Kate snores quietly against Beverly’s shoulder, already fast asleep. Beverly is fading, too, her hand still moving lazily through Bill’s hair as he returns to his humming. He plays with the collar of Stanley’s shirt absentmindedly, the gentle brush of his fingers against his throat nearly lulling the taller boy to sleep even more than his singing had. Ben’s breath is slow and even, his eyelids growing heavy as he peers up at the ceiling over their heads, wondering how the stars outside could possibly be shining when he feels like all the stars in the world are lying beside him in this room, trapped in the bodies of these eight people who seem to be just as much a part of him as his own arms and legs. He realizes with a slow, lazy smile that this is the first time in his life he’s ever been drunk and happy at the same time. He hopes desperately that it’s the start of something new. Richie is the only one managing to keep his eyes open, and he looks around at all of them, letting his gaze fall once more on the boy in his arms.

“To new beginnings,” he breathes just before succumbing to his own sleepiness and letting his eyes close.

 

* * *

 

“I didn’t even know soccer _had_ cheerleaders,” Richie comments, following after Eddie and Mike as they head towards the bleachers in search of the rest of their friends. Mike furrows his brow at that comment.

“Isn’t your sister a cheerleader?” he asks, and Richie snorts.

“Exactly why I don’t know a single fucking thing about them,” he explains, and Mike hums, nodding. He knows just as well as the rest of their friends that the relationship between the Tozier siblings is strained. “I try to stay as far away from Jess and her crowd as I can. Katie Lane is the only one in all the jock world that I can stomach on a regular basis…”

“Nick, too,” Eddie adds, bopping Richie in the stomach lightly with his fist and sending a pointed look in his direction.

“Eh, he’s on thin ice,” Richie shrugs, and Mike rolls his eyes at the sky.

“You can act like you hate my boyfriend all you want, Tozier. I still remember the Blonde Bombshell comme—”

“Michael, that was told to you in _confidence!_ ” Richie shrieks, the tips of his ears turning red with a blush as both Eddie and Mike begin to laugh.

“Oh, please, Rich -- do you really think Mikey didn’t tell all of us about that the literal second you were out of the room the next day?” Eddie chuckles. There is nothing but jest in Eddie’s voice, and Richie feels his shoulders relax when he scans Eddie’s face and finds no trace of jealousy, no signs of feeling threatened at all. As _if_ he would ever need to feel threatened. Eddie might have his issues when it comes to trusting other people, issues he’s been working on for some time now with the help of all of his friends, but trusting that Richie is faithful has _never_ been one of them. _Richie Tozier_ is practically synonymous with _loyalty_ as far as Eddie is concerned, and he doesn’t for one moment think that his comment about Nick was anything more than a lighthearted compliment. “It was cute, don’t worry. Honestly, I didn’t even know you liked blondes…” He’s just playing along, messing with him, and as Richie realizes this fully, a grin works its way slowly onto his own face.

“Not nearly as much as brunettes,” he promises, voice pitched low as they start to come upon more people, crowds of them all just loitering near the fence that encloses the bleachers and the soccer field. Eddie looks away sharply at his boyfriend’s words and turns to blush down at his toes instead, shoving him again lightly.

“Shut up,” he mumbles out of the corner of his smiling mouth, and Richie wants so desperately to be able to kiss him. To even just hold his _hand._ But Richie Tozier isn’t stupid, and he knows that a sports game in the heart of Derry, Maine, surrounded by the same people who’ve spent the better part of the last few months since Homecoming whispering and sneering whenever Richie walks by is just about the worst place to want to hold his boyfriend’s hand. But he fucking wants to. He wants to hold Eddie’s hand all of the time, not just when they’re alone or when they’re only around their friends. He wants to hold Eddie’s hand on _top_ of restaurant tables, in broad daylight, free and uncaring of the fear of scrutinizing gazes. He doesn’t even realize he’s frowning until he catches Eddie looking up at him, concern pooling in his dark eyes. “You alright, ‘Chee? I was just joking…”

“Know that, Eds,” he swears, letting the smile return to his face with ease. It doesn’t ever feel like he’s trying too hard to smile when it’s Eddie he’s smiling at, after all. “I just… wish we were somewhere else,” he mumbles, and Eddie blinks, understanding immediately. He looks around them quickly, noticing that Mike has nearly made it towards the fence opening, and when he is sure no one in the immediate area is paying them any attention, he reaches over and laces his fingers through Richie’s. Only for a few seconds, but he gives his hand a light squeeze, and it seems to restart Richie’s heart, to wind it up in his chest like a toy racecar, and Richie feels just a little bit lighter. They let go, but they’re still smiling when they catch up to Mike again.

“Found Bevs,” he says with a grin, and he points up towards the very top of the bleachers where they can see her red curls flying in the breeze. Her hair is longer than any of them remember it being in a while - still above her shoulders, but the ringlets are much looser than usual, her bangs sweeping into her eyes just a bit more. She has a pair of earmuffs on and what looks like --

“Oh, I fucking love Beverly Marsh,” Richie sighs, unable to tear his gaze from the sight before him, but he is sure if he were to turn towards the other two boys, it would be to find each of them mimicking his own fond smile. Beverly is wearing a Derry Central varsity jacket over her turtleneck and jeans. But Beverly Marsh does not play on a school sports team. She does not belong to any clubs. She has no reason to be wearing a varsity jacket.

Well, except for one.

She is standing on her tippy-toes and has her hands cupped around her mouth, effectively amplifying the “ _Wooo, go Kay!”_ that’s now whistling through the late March air, still chilly as it bites at everyone’s faces. Richie follows her gaze to where it’s resting on Kate, and he can see how flushed her cheeks are even with his terrible eyesight. She doesn’t wear her glasses when she cheers for fear of breaking them, and she has false eyelashes on and the same maroon shade of lipstick as the rest of the cheerleaders, but unlike them, the smile on Kate’s face is genuine. She can be in the same uniform as them, have her wild curls tamed up in the same high ponytail, and cake on the same brands of makeup, but Kate does not look like the rest of the cheerleaders - not to Beverly, not to Richie, not to anyone in those stands who loves her.

Richie recognizes a scattered few of the others as acquaintances of his sister - not friends, no. Richie isn’t sure that Jess would know a true friend if one came up and bit her on her long, semi-crooked nose - one of the few traits they still have left in common that she didn’t brutally change about herself to look more perfect, less like a _Tozier_ \- but a couple of the girls on the squad have been over to the Tozier house before to sit in Jess’s room and listen to shitty music. They, like his sister, are not fond of him at all, and sometimes Richie thinks about asking them why before remembering that he doesn’t care. He did, however, notice that they haven’t been coming around to their house lately, and only now does he recall Jess saying she has been being treated differently since he came out on stage at Homecoming. He spots his sister in the crowd of ponytails, sees the look of rage flash in Jess’s eyes as Kate steps to the point of the pyramid formation instead of her - and well, Richie simply cannot resist.

“Go get ‘em, Tiny Dancer!” he cries, and Kate’s eyes find his flailing arms in the crowd immediately. She waves back to him proudly, pomp-pom held high. Jess Tozier seethes behind her. “God, this is the best day of my life,” Richie sighs as Eddie and Mike both wave to Kate. “Supporting my friends and their very, very gay relationship. Potentially getting to see my sister shit a brick in front of the entire school. I don’t know how this day could get any better - Mikey, please tell me you brought your camera…”

“Sorry, Tozier - didn’t wanna risk someone breaking it...” Mike says as he shoves Richie up the steps alongside him. Richie frowns, wanting to kick himself for forgetting about that. It isn’t unheard of for Mike to hear taunts and jabs wherever he goes in Derry, but in this particular crowd, he may as well put a target on his back. Richie steps just a bit closer to him; he might not be as strong as Mike is himself, but that doesn’t mean he won’t go down swinging if a fight ever did break out. He does a quick scan of the area and does not see Henry Bowers or his cohorts anywhere, and so he relaxes, but only a bit. He’s so glad that most of those assholes are graduating with Jess this year.

When they finally reach the top, Richie coos as he takes in the sight of Bill sitting between Stanley and Nick, swaddled in a blanket with one of his beanies yanked down over his red ears.

“Cold, Billy Boy?” Richie wonders, patting his head fondly. Bill nods.

“Fr-Freezing,” he admits with a sniffle, and Stanley’s arm twitches, almost like he was about to coil it around Bill’s shoulders, but then realized where they were. His eyes dart around them and he grimaces. Bill bumps his knee against Stanley’s and sends a sweet smile in his direction, and Stanley feels the corners of his mouth tug up just a bit. “No p-p-pouting. Unless it’s b-because you know wh-what that team down there n-needs is _you._ ”

“Yeah, right,” Stanley chuckles, feeling his cheeks burn, both from the wind and the praise. Richie wedges himself between Stanley and Ben, tosses his arm around Stanley’s shoulders, and shakes him lightly.

“Billy Boy is absolutely right about that, Stretch,” he affirms. “Those boys down there wouldn’t know what hit ‘em if they let you loose on that field… Plus, you’d be way better eye-candy than those sorry lugs...” He pinches Stanley’s cheek and the other boy swats his hand away with a scoff.

“Gross, Tozier… Kaspbrak, get him off of me,” he pleads, pushing Richie back towards where Eddie is standing up on the bench directly behind him, opting to join Beverly in cheering for Kate. Richie leans the crown of his head back against Eddie’s thighs, nearly knocking him over and forcing Eddie to latch onto the neck of Richie’s hoodie to balance himself.

“Oh, so sorry, Spaghetti! I guess you just can’t stop falling for me, huh?” Richie teases, puckering his lips up at his boyfriend, and Eddie pulls the other boy’s hood down over his eyes, forcing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. _“Ow,”_ Richie whines, rubbing at it.

“Christ, Tozier, your nose is still fucking sore? It’s been, like, a thousand years.” Beverly looks away from the field for the first time since the others arrived. Nick shifts uncomfortably where he’s scooted closer to Mike, leaning forward so he can peer at Richie around their friends squished between them. Eddie looks over towards the younger boy and sees muffled concern on his face, like he still feels some guilt over what happened between Richie and Henry Bowers at his Halloween party. Eddie smiles at him.

“No, he’s just a giant baby,” Eddie reassures Beverly.

“ _Your_ giant baby,” Richie corrects cheekily under his breath while their friends all chuckle, but before anyone else can speak up, they notice that the referee has finally stepped onto the field to begin the game. The cheerleaders all scamper off the field, giving one final wave to the crowd. Kate blows a kiss up at the top row of bleachers where she can spot all of her friends cheering, and Beverly makes a huge show of catching it and pressing it right over her heart that has Kate giggling and blushing as she takes a seat on the last row of bleachers with the rest of the squad.

 

“You know,” Richie begins just after the referee has blown his whistle, signalling the end of the first half of the game, “I really think this game would be a lot interesting if you could use your hands…” Ben lets out a groan and drops between his knees.

“For the _last_ time,” his muffled voice sounds, “possibly the _most important_ rule of soccer is that you cannot use your hands -- ”

“Rules can be _changed,_ Benjamin!” the other boy argues hotly, nose in the air. “I never liked following the rules very much anyway…”

“You don’t say,” Mike deadpans, fixing his friend with a pointed look, and Richie nods adamantly.

“As a matter of fact, I _do_ say,” Richie insists, and then he starts ranting about how he has been a rebellious child since before he was even born. Something about kicking constantly in the womb. Nobody is paying that much attention, but he keeps rambling anyway. Nick turns towards Stanley.

“Is he just always like this?” the younger boy wonders, and Stanley sighs quietly.

“Every day of our goddamn lives since kindergarten,” he laments, and Nick’s eyes widen.

“You’re fucking with me.”

“Oh, kid, I wish I wasn’t,” Stanley assures, just as Richie lets out a gasp and takes off running down the bleachers towards something none of the rest of them can see, leaving them all to stare after him, perplexed. “Unbelievable. Kaspbrak, you’re dating a toddler. I think Georgie was _born_ with more of an attention span than Trashmouth has even at 16…”

“Oh, he definitely was,” Eddie nods. “No doubt about that…” While everyone is still chuckling, Richie returns, smiling mischievously and holding clear tubes of what looks like --

“Is that _paint?_ ” Beverly balks. “What sort of moron would give _you_ paint, Tozier?” she laughs fondly from where she’s still perched on the last row of bleachers, leaning back onto her elbows as they are propped against the railing. Richie sticks his tongue out at her.

“Some freshman is down near the field selling it,” he explains. “Now who wants to help me paint my face?” he bounces on the balls of his feet as he says this, eyes wide and bright with excitement. “Spaghetti, you wanna make me pretty?” Ben snorts.

“Tozier, I don’t even think _Bev_ could fix that mug of yours,” he mutters and Richie aims a half-hearted kick at his calf that both Bill and Stanley quickly deflect with their own legs.

“Sticks and stones, Haystack!” Richie cries as he dumps the tubes of paint into Eddie’s lap before lowering his voice. “Eddie _loves_ my rugged good looks, don’t you, darling?”

“I don’t think I have ever said that, no,” Eddie shakes his head, and Beverly barks out a laugh at that.

“Yeah, _sure,_ we all totally believe that,” she teases, giving an overdramatic wink and a thumbs up in Eddie’s direction. “Why don’t you just paint your own face, Rich?” she asks, and Richie shakes his head.

“I can’t see myself, Bevs!”

“Lucky you...” Stanley mumbles.

“A tragedy, I know,” he sighs. “So, I need someone else to do it. And I pick Eddie.”

“You’ve al-always picked Eddie,” Bill jests warmly, and both Richie and Eddie turn a light pink at that sentiment before the latter turns to face his boyfriend.

“You’re not seriously thinking about putting this stuff on your face, are you, ‘Chee?” he asks, and when Richie nods vehemently, he lets out an exasperated sigh. “You don’t even know what this is!” he says, holding up a tube of red liquid. “What if it’s not _actually_ paint?” Richie shrugs.

“What else would it be, Eds?”

“I don’t know! It could be pig’s blood or something!”

“That is most definitely not what pig’s blood looks like, Kaspbrak,” Mike promises, and Eddie gives him an exhausted look.

“Not helping, Mikey,” he sighs. “Okay, so it’s not pig’s blood, but I’m serious, Rich, you’re actually gonna put something on your face that you just bought off of some random kid at a soccer game?” Richie shrugs again and takes a seat beside his boyfriend, close enough so he can thread their fingers together without having to worry about judgemental eyes.

“Not if it’s gonna worry you that much, Eds,” he says quietly. “I just thought it’d be fun, but I don’t have to do it…”

“Oh, you can do whatever you want with your face, Richie,” Eddie assures sweetly, smiling at him, and Richie perks up, reaching for the paint tubes just as the other boy adds, “Just know I might potentially never kiss your face again if you do.” Richie’s jaw drops as the rest of their friends snicker.

“ _Now_ you’re literally stifling my art!” he cries dramatically, wagging his finger in front of Eddie’s nose, and Eddie swats him away, being sure to meet Richie’s eyes and confirm in their own private, secret way that they’re both just playing. He sees the familiar glint of mischief in his boyfriend’s eyes as always, and Eddie merely holds his hands up in surrender.

“I said what I said.”

“I need to _express myself,_ Eds!”

“Okay, when are you _not_ expressing yourself?” Eddie shoots back around a laugh and Ben turns into Stanley’s shoulder with a groan.

“Oh, my _God…”_  he whines, and Richie lets out a defeated sigh.

“If I can’t paint my face, can I at _least_ have some snackies?”  
  
“Only if you stop calling them _snackies_ ,” Eddie begs and Richie grins widely.  
  
“Sold!” he pumps his fist into the air triumphantly and then starts to dig into his pocket for change to hand over, but Eddie shakes his head at him, pushing his arm back down.  
  
“I got this, babe,” he whispers when Richie stares at him, confused. “Equal partnership, ‘member?” Eddie smiles at him and winks quickly, just a small motion, but it nearly short-circuits Richie’s heart in his chest.  
  
“Yeah...” he says back dumbly, nodding. “Yeah, okay… Thank you.”  
  
“My pleasure,” Eddie says, and Richie’s smile blooms even further across his face as the other boy gets to his feet. “Anyone comin’ with?” he wonders, looking around at all their friends, and Bill knocks his knee against Stanley’s, pulling the boy’s focus from where it had been on the field below as he watched Kate and the other cheerleaders do their half-time routine.

“Honey,” Bill says, sure no one else could possibly hear him over Beverly, Mike, and Nick’s raucous cheers for Kate sounding behind them, “c-c-could you see if they have h-hot ch-chocolate?” And as if his puppy eyes weren’t enough to get his boyfriend to give him anything he wanted, that paired with his wind-bitten cheeks and his bright red nose just about do Stanley in for good.  
  
“Sure can,” he says with a smile, and Bill beams, laying his head on Stanley’s shoulder just for a moment in silent thanks before pulling his blanket further around himself.

“Hey, Denbrough, you feel like sharing some of that warmth? It’s cold as shit out here,” Ben grits through chattering teeth, running his hands up and down his arms and very much regretting wearing a t-shirt. Bill nods, smiling, and extends his arm so Ben can join him beneath the blanket.

Stanley gets to his feet and follows Eddie down the steps that divide the bleachers, the pair of them elbowing their way carefully through the crowd of Derry Central students all congregating near the opening of the fence where the snack stand rests. As they move towards the end of the line, they pass by a senior boy and girl who are tangled around one another and leaning up against the hood of his car. The girl’s arms are coiled around the boy’s shoulders as they kiss, his hands on her hips, the pair of them smiling. It makes Eddie’s blood boil a bit, and when he looks over in Stanley’s direction and finds him trembling slightly, he realizes he isn’t the only one overwhelmed by what they aren’t allowed to do. What they cannot flaunt in public for anyone to see because the very act of their own love is not _allowed_ , that the feelings Eddie has for Richie and Stanley for Bill make some people so angry that it could get them hurt. Or worse.

Eddie wants so badly to hate this couple, but he doesn’t. They didn’t make up these meaningless rules. He wants to be angry at them, but he can’t. He’s just upset. He’s _jealous._ They get to hug and kiss and make eyes at each other in front of the whole goddamn school while Eddie feels like he has to stay at least an arm’s length away from Richie or else one or both of them will get their asses kicked. Eddie has never done well in crowds, and with this game being one of the last of the season, it’s _packed_ in the bleachers. All throughout the first half, he’d wanted to grab Richie’s hand, feeling himself growing more and more anxious and just wanting that comfort, but the fear of someone seeing far outweighed that desire, and so he’d stayed quiet, still. Richie had looked over at him on occasion, a question in his eyes, but Eddie had simply managed a small smile for him until Richie was satisfied enough to turn back towards the game.

Stanley hasn’t been having the best time either. He loves being here to support Kate, but their fellow classmates are always animals when it comes to sporting events, and this one is certainly no exception: popcorn litters the floor of the bleachers, along with empty soda bottles and beer cans, and even though Stanley adores sports, he is having an incredibly difficult time focusing on the game at all when everything around him is just _filthy_. Bill does a wonderful job of calming his nerves which are still through the roof even though it’s been quite some time since he and his mother moved out and away from his father - and quite frankly, Stanley doesn’t think it’s too much to ask to want to hold Bill’s hand when he’s upset. It doesn’t feel like a lot to ask at all.

“Do you ever wonder who decided there had to be a difference?” Stanley whispers suddenly, unable to tear his eyes away from the boy and the girl several yards away. They’ve broken apart now, but their hands are intertwined between their bodies now, their foreheads touching as the boy says something, tells some joke that gets the girl to slap his chest lightly, her smile lighting up across her entire face. “What son of a bitch decided there was any difference at all between us and them?”

“I think I’d punch whoever decided that if I ever got the chance,” Eddie says back, and Stanley nods mutely, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt.

“Some people say it was God,” Stanley explains. “But those people… They’re wrong. I refuse to accept the idea that my God would make me this way only to turn around and hate me for it. That His love comes with exceptions.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t really make much sense,” Eddie agrees softly. He’s always struggled with the type of faith that seems to just be second nature to Stanley despite his own Christain upbringing, and so he has always had a lot of respect for his friend, especially because Stanley has never tried to change any of their minds on the subject. Eddie is sure that if he ever considered learning more about God or religion than what he remembers from bible school, he’d go to Stanley first even though his mother makes a big stink about Judaism in general. “Isn’t it a thing that we’re all made in God’s image anyway? That we’re reflections of Him?” Stanley nods. “Yeah, then that definitely doesn’t make sense. He wouldn’t hate us for _loving._ At least I don’t think He would…”

“I don’t either,” Stanley says again.

“I mean… I look at you and Bill, or Bev and Kate, and it all looks the same. It _is_ the same. And even if it wasn’t, who the fuck gets to say we can’t be out here like them?” He jerks his chin towards the couple. “Why do we have to be afraid to so much as even _look_ at Richie or Bill when they can be all over each other like it’s nothing? It’s bullshit…”

He looks over at Stanley again and he notices something very minute, the action so small he and their other friends have always wondered if Stanley is aware he does it at all: he raises his hand to curl around the side of his own throat, his pinky pressing lightly down as Stanley checks his pulse. Eddie recognizes this as one of Stanley’s signs that he’s feeling anxious; being friends with him for nearly a decade has given the smaller boy quite an insight into Stanley’s behavior, and he is sure that Stanley knows things about Eddie that Eddie himself isn’t aware he does, that they all probably know much more about one another than they ever let on. Nevertheless, Eddie does not only know how to tell when Stanley isn’t feeling well - he also knows how to help him.

“At least it’s been confirmed now - God is gay...” Stanley laughs, albeit a bit softer than he would’ve another time. Still, his smile is genuine when it fades. “Hey pal,” Eddie says softly and delicately, taking a step closer. “What do you need from me right now?” He watches the way Stanley’s gaze drops to his toes. If Eddie has learned one thing being this boy’s friend, it’s that the worst thing anyone could do is assume what Stanley needs rather than asking him. So he asks. “Do you want to talk? Do you want Bill? Whatever it is, I’m listening.”

“It’s just…” Stanley starts off quiet. “My, uh… My therapist talks about it a lot. She - she says there’s this like… shock period? After a trauma or, like, something major in your life. Like you aren’t aware of the aftermath of what you went through right away because you’re so focused on getting yourself out of it that your feelings can’t catch up with you. Sometimes not until months later. And then you crash. And I just… I don’t know, Eds - this mess with my father, this move, it’s all just - it’s all just piling up in my head and I’m… I’m starting to feel like how I felt last spring…”

Eddie flinches at the reminder, hating to ever recall those horrible months when the group had split apart, each with little pieces of one another still tethering themselves together and only making the drifting more painful. It feels like another lifetime ago, and every time Eddie kisses Richie or holds Beverly’s hand or hugs Mike, he feels it growing easier and easier to bury those memories. However, when he looks at Stanley now - well, it might just be this time last year with the way Stanley’s face seems to drain of color right before Eddie’s eyes.

“I haven’t… I haven’t gotten that bad yet, and I think the only difference is that I don’t feel alone now like how I did when we all weren’t talking,” he explains, and Eddie nods, grateful for Stanley’s wanting to talk because it is giving him time to gather his own thoughts. “But I’m… I can feel myself getting like that again, and it’s scaring me, Eds.”

“Getting… Getting like what, Stanley?” the other boy whispers, and Stanley’s eyes widen.

“I… Oh… I never…? I thought Richie might’ve told…” he mumbles this, almost to himself, his eyes welling up with tears, and Eddie reaches to curl his fingers around Stanley’s elbow, pulling him out of the snack stand line and under the nearest set of bleachers, far from any wandering eyes or prying ears. “Richie really didn’t tell you?” he gapes in disbelief.

“Didn’t tell me what? Something that’s clearly personal and very obviously something that isn’t Richie’s to share without your permission?” Eddie prompts gently, and Stanley’s lips shake. “No, Stan. Whatever you’re trying to tell me about now, Richie has never told me. We’re all _friends_ first. We don’t just offer up each other’s business now that some of us are paired off - that’s what _straight_ couples do,” he jokes, nose wrinkling in disgust, and he looks and sounds so much like Richie in that moment that Stanley cannot help but let out a wet laugh. “You can tell me anything, Stan, and you can trust that if you want it kept between us, then it stays kept between us. I promise.” Stanley nods quietly, still looking down as he breathes in and out slowly, counting to five each time until he finally feels like he can lift his head, and when he does, Eddie smiles at him encouragingly.

“Things got… really bad for me last spring, Eddie. I… I mean, between not having any of you to talk to or spend time with, and just being shut up in my house with my father -- ” his voice cracks at the mention of Donald Uris, and he wipes at his eyes harshly with the heel of his hand. “I was just… in my head all the time. And I started to have these thoughts, these… my therapist calls them ideations. Basically it’s like… I would think about suicide… Consider it… I won’t do it - at least, I don’t think I will… But I-I got close a few times, Eds,” Stanley’s words are becoming less and less coherent now, and Eddie can see the way his entire body has begun to shake. “And I-I don’t know, now with everything that’s been happening - the move, my coming out, all of it just feels like too much and I can feel myself slipping into those thoughts again like how I was then and I feel like I can’t stop it, Eddie, and I don’t know what to do…”

Eddie is stunned, speechless, and so he does the only thing he can think to do - he hugs him. He throws his arms around Stanley’s middle and pulls him into his chest, tightening his hold on him when he feels the taller boy almost collapse into it. He rubs a small circle into Stanley’s back, just between his shoulder-blades, and he hears him suck in a rattling breath, feels his tears splash against his throat.  

“Stanley,” Eddie begins delicately once he has found his voice, “have you talked to anyone else about this? Besides me and Richie? And your therapist?” He hears Stanley sniffle quietly.

“Not really, no,” he shakes his head where it’s still resting on Eddie’s shoulder. “I… I want to tell the rest of our friends, but… I don’t want to worry them…” his voice wavers again. “I’m sorry if I’m worrying you now,” he adds after a beat, and Eddie’s heart nearly snaps in two.

“Stanley, you’re one of my best friends. You’ve been in my life since we were 5 years old. I _love_ you. I want to know when you’re hurting. I’m… I’m so glad you’ve told me this, Stanley,” Eddie swears, pulling back just slightly so that he’s sure the other boy can see his eyes, can see the truth in them. “I want to help, in any way that I can.”

“That’s why I told Richie…” Stanley says. “Because I thought he could help me.”

“And has he helped you?” Eddie prompts, smiling softly, too. Stanley nods adamantly.  
  
“Yes... You all do, even though you didn’t know the details. More than I could possibly tell any of you...” Stanley promises, looking up finally to fix Eddie with his burning gaze. “That’s why I want the rest of them to know, too… It’s why I knew I could trust you about this, Eds - because I know you’ll look after me... that you’ll — that’ll you’ll keep an eye on me...” he whispers this last part, and Eddie feels like someone’s wrapped their fingers around his heart and squeezed with all their might.  
  
“Oh - oh, of _course_ I will, Stan,” he swears, reaching forward to latch onto the taller boy’s arm, and he isn’t entirely sure if it’s more to comfort Stanley or to anchor himself. _Both_ , he supposes - and maybe that’s all friendship ever really is. Vowing to not know together, to tread into the unknown side-by-side and keep ahold of one another through all of it. Eddie has never had trouble making that promise, not to his friends, not to the Losers. Eddie loves every last one of them so fiercely, without any reservation, and would do anything for them, and he tries his best to convey all of this with his eyes as his tongue suddenly grows heavy in his mouth. He gives Stanley a watery smile, and Stanley responds with a timid one of his own, raising his hand to pat Eddie’s where it still rests against his bicep.

“Thank you, Eddie,” is all he says, voice shaking a little, and Eddie hugs his friend again, uncaring of what it might look like to anyone around them, not even deigning to worry over what people might whisper about him. Stanley Uris is his friend, and he is hurting - so, Eddie hugs him, glad to take any amount of jeers or glares that might get thrown his way once they separate. As far as he is concerned, the calmness in Stanley’s eyes when they let one another go is worth all of it and then some.

Stanley and Eddie make it back up to their seats just as the second half of the game begins. Richie leaps eagerly down from where he’d been standing between Beverly and Mike to relieve Eddie of the two cups of soda and popcorn he’d been trying to balance in his hands. Richie fixes Eddie with a playfully scrutinizing look.

“What took you two so long? Should Bill and I be worried?” Richie teases, and all it takes is one gentle but stern look from his boyfriend to let him know that now isn’t the time for jokes. He furrows his brow at Eddie, concern flashing across his face, but Eddie shakes his head, mouthing _later_ to him when he is sure that none of the others are looking. Richie nods, smiling quickly returning once he refocuses on the snacks in his arms. “You spoil me rotten, Spaghetti Man,” he sighs, tossing a piece of popcorn into the air and catching it on his tongue. “Thanks again.”

“S’nothing, Rich…” Eddie swears, scratching at the back of his neck bashfully. “Besides, I’m sure you blew all your pocket change on that stupid paint anyway…”

“Hey, I resent that accusation! Even if it is true!” Richie shouts, poking at Eddie’s cheek and forcing the other boy to bat his hand away. “You know you’re my impulse control… You should’ve never let me wander off without you…”

“So your irresponsible purchase was actually _my_ fault?” Eddie laughs, and Richie nods, grinning cheekily at him. “Oh, silly me, I forgot I was your fucking keeper…” Eddie mutters, rolling his eyes fondly, and Richie beams.

“You’re all that and more, peaches,” he insists, shoving a whole handful of popcorn into his mouth, some of the pieces falling to his boot-clad feet. Stanley shifts beside him, moving closer to Bill, who is nursing his hot chocolate happily as he watches the soccer players dart back and forth across the field.

“Richie, can you at least try to eat like a civilized human being?” Stanley pleads, and if it weren’t for the slight quiver Richie can hear in the other boy’s voice, for the slight blotchiness to his face that he is sure Stanley would blame on the chilly air, he might have shot back a snappy retort at that request. But he knows that messes can be upsetting for Stanley, and that coupled with Eddie’s quiet insistence that he reign Trashmouth in for the remainder of the evening results in him bending down to scoop up the pieces of popcorn that he’d dropped.

“You’re right, Stretch. My bad. Got a garbage bag, Spaghetti?” he asks lightly, turning to his boyfriend and smiling knowingly at him when he sees Eddie digging into his backpack for the plastic bag he’d brought to dispose of any of their trash. He finds it eventually and holds it open so that Richie can dump the dirtied popcorn bits into it, and then he takes a napkin that Eddie offers him and cleans his hands off. “There. Right as rain.”

“Thank you,” Stanley mutters, flushing in spite of himself, and Richie holds his fist out towards the other boy, a silent request for a truce. Stanley rolls his eyes and bops his own fist on top of Richie’s, feigning reluctance but smiling all the same, grateful as always for the friends he has in his life, for the people he gets to keep close to him - these infallible souls who protect his head and his heart even when he feels like they’re both working against him.

As the entire visitor’s stadium rises to its feet, stomping and cheering in celebration for their victory over Derry Central, Stanley hears Richie shouting, “Oh, who _cares!_ ” He begins to laugh quietly, but his whole body shakes with it. _Who cares?_ Stanley agrees. He couldn’t care less about the outcome of the game, because he can see Kate running up the bleachers to join them, pom-poms still held high in the air and with an uncaring smile on her face. The tighter curls that don’t fit in her ponytail hang in her eyes a bit, and they bounce as she hops the final bench and launches herself into Richie, Mike, and Beverly’s waiting arms.

“Thank you guys for coming,” she pants, out of breath, and Beverly steals a quick kiss, planting it in her curls swiftly before pulling back to beam at her, eyes filled with pride.

“We wouldn’t have missed your debut for the world, Kay,” she swears, crossing her finger over her heart, and Kate’s cheek flush pink as Richie musses with her hair, fingers splayed and tugging her curls loose from the tight hair tie coiled around them. “Sorry you didn’t win...” Kate shrugs, and she catches Stanley’s eye from where she can see him over Mike’s shoulder, smiling at her and giving her a thumbs up.

“Sure feels like I did,” she insists, and they all grin back at her. There isn’t a single one of them who disagrees.

 

* * *

 

“I need to find a new temple,” Stanley blurts out to the group one late afternoon when they’re all gathered in the living-room of his apartment - _all_ meaning the seven of them, nothing more.

Fridays have been like this for some time now. Ever since the spring, per a suggestion from Bill, they agreed to set aside at least one day for each other, one full night for their friendship — and thus Losers Night was born. No matter what craziness might occur in their individual lives, Friday nights glimmer like a beacon of light at the end of some very long weeks for every last one of them, but none so much as Stanley, and never as much as of late.

He’s been trying his hardest to stay afloat ever since his fallout with his father, but with everything happening so quickly in the last few weeks, he can feel himself taking on water, and he is sure that if he doesn’t call out for help soon, he’ll be completely lost.

So he does. Despite every fiber of his being telling him to clam up and muscle through it on his own, he can never quite turn off that voice in his head, a voice that’s always sounded remarkably like Bill, urging him to trust the six people around him, to let them help him. He looks quickly to his left where he knows his boyfriend is lying beside him; both of their backs are pressed against the sofa as they sprawl out on the floor, and Bill is smiling up at him sweetly, like always, his cheek against Stanley’s shoulder and with a look of pride in his eyes.

“I th-think that’s a great idea, babe,” he nods encouragingly, reaching to twist their fingers together and bring them to his lips. He doesn’t break eye contact with him as he presses a kiss to Stanley’s knuckles, and Stanley feels instantly calm. He’ll never understand how Bill does it, but he will never take it for granted either.

“Have you talked to your mom about looking around for one outside of Derry?” Eddie asks with a yawn from his place in Richie’s lap, their heads still bent together sleepily; the pair of them have monopolized the tiny armchair nestled into the corner of the room, nothing but a mess of limbs tangled on the cushion. Richie’s head is still tucked into the crooked of Eddie’s neck while the smaller boy runs his fingers through his curls, pulling them looser and looser. Stanley has always envied Richie for how deeply he seems to sleep. He is sure not even an earthquake would stir him so long as Eddie stayed toying with his hair like that. Stanley shakes his head mutely at his friend after another moment, feeling a blush rise on his cheeks.

“Haven’t had the chance,” he whispers, which isn’t a complete lie. Robin Uris _has_ been working a lot lately, limiting the time spent with her son quite a bit. Even when they are home at the same time, she’s usually exhausted from her long hours on her feet, and so typically will head straight to bed after a quick dinner. “I, uh… I’d kind of like to surprise her, if I’m honest,” he admits, and Beverly perks up from where she’d been curled up on the sofa behind both his and Bill’s heads. “It’s been hard… not being able to go these past few weeks.” He hears her let out a quiet coo and he feels her hand find his shoulder and give a light squeeze.

“I didn’t even realize you wouldn’t be going…” she says quietly, eyes wide, and Stanley nods. With his father being the rabbi, it only made sense that he and his mother would stay away, even though it was breaking both of their hearts to do so. “I know Kate goes to temple with her mom in Bangor… I could ask her about it if you want?” she prompts, jostling him gently, and Stanley cranes his neck slightly to smile up at her gratefully.

“Yeah, maybe… I wanna look around a bit, I think,” he explains. “I thought about waiting until we were more settled in here, but I can’t… It’s… not having anywhere to go, it’s not good,” he says this quietly, but not one of his friends misses the way his voice almost quivers, the way it rattles around _anywhere_ . Beverly’s hand on his shoulder tightens and Ben sits up a little straighter where he had been resting beside Mike on the floor. Bill squeezes his fingers lightly, the gesture small but very, very clear: _I’m listening. We all are._ He looks over Bill’s shoulder to where Eddie and Richie are, the latter now awake (probably prodded at by Eddie once the other boy realized Stanley needed all hands on deck), and Richie smiles at him too. Stanley feels just a little bit braver.

“I… I’m not okay,” Stanley admits, and he hates the way his voice cracks, but he’s decided in a split instant that he cannot conceal this from them anymore. That he doesn’t want to. That they need to see and hear it if he can ever hope for them to be the help he knows they can be to him. “I haven’t been for a while, honestly. Since spring, I guess.” He feels them all freeze, still amazed at how fresh that wound feels even months later. “I got really bad then… Started having thoughts… Grace calls them ideations.” They all know who Grace is, that she’s been Stanley’s therapist for years, and they also know that it is a very rare instance for him to talk about her at all. Ben and Beverly share a look, nothing more than a flickering meeting of their worried eyes, and then turn their attention back to their friend. “I’ve thought about hurting myself before. Almost did a few times,” Bill’s knuckles are white as he holds his boyfriend’s hand, and yet somehow, his touch is still gentle. “I got really, really close. I sometimes still don’t know what kept me from doing it. I guess it was all of you, even just as an abstract thought. I truly thought our friendship was over, but I kept thinking about my funeral... I know that’s morose, but I couldn’t bear the idea of you all needing to go to it. At least so young.”

Ben is the first to make a sound - it’s quiet, half-muffled, but it’s a whimper nonetheless, and he crawls quickly over to Stanley’s side, latching onto him like a lifeline and hugging him. Stanley returns his embrace fiercely, and soon all of them are moving, crowding around their friend, not entirely unlike that moment on the sandlot when he’d first told them about what had happened with his father. Stanley feels just as much love in this moment now as he did then. Maybe more. Definitely more.

“That’s why I’m telling you now,” he whispers into Bill’s hair when he turns to rest his jaw against the top of his head. “I’m… I can feel myself starting to slip into that mindset again…” Beverly runs her fingers through his curls and kisses the crown of his head gently. “I don’t want you guys to be scared. I don’t want any of you to worry,” he locks eyes with Mike who has stayed silent this whole time, Mike who has never needed to be loud to be strong, and he bumps his fist lightly against Stanley’s chest, right over his heart. “I just... I really think that not having a place of worship is a big reason for it…” Richie looks around at all of them, the seven of them, and he places his hands on either side of Stanley’s face.

“Then we’ll find you a place,” he promises, and Bill nods adamantly.

“R-R-Richie’s right. We’ll f-find somewhere, baby,” he swears, and Stanley’s lip starts to shake. “Even if it’s y-y-your living-room, and we r-run it ourselves, okay?” Stanley laughs at that, sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that every last person in this room would convert to Judaism for him without even blinking. He loves each of them so deeply. “We’re n-not g-g-going to let you sl-slip anymore. We’ve got you.”

“We’ve got you,” Beverly echoes, resting her cheek against Stanley’s head and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. They all move in closer, a tangle of arms and legs and hearts splayed out on the living-room floor. Stanley thinks they’re always going to be the only mess he doesn't want to fix.

 

* * *

 

Richie, Beverly and Ben have been talking about how much they want to get out of Derry since they’ve known each other. They’re plan-makers, and while Richie’s not much on the follow through, he certainly has his dreams. Bigger dreams than Eddie could ever compete with.

They’ve tried to discuss this before - the prospect of getting out of Derry - but it always ends in the same way: frustrated tears and promises to discuss it again soon. Richie always gives in first, knowing when Eddie’s had his fill but knowing he’s far too stubborn to end the argument himself.

They’re currently lounging in Richie’s bedroom. Eddie’s hanging backwards off the bed with his hair brushing the hardwood floor while Richie reads _Frankenstein_ for class. He’s reading out loud to Eddie even though he already finished the book in a voracious stint a few nights ago. He’d been looking for a way to escape his malignant, roundabout thoughts that kept coming back to his and Richie’s future, so he threw himself into the book.

Eddie flips around and looks around the room as Richie prattles on, giving voices to all the characters like always. He spots Richie’s calendar that Eddie gave him for Christmas this year on the other side of the room. It’s a _Star Wars_ calendar, and they’re on the Han Solo month right now - Richie’s favorite character. Eddie can see the huge hearts that Richie drew around Han’s head even from the other side of the room and with his slightly fuzzy vision. He smiles and then sees that there’s only one thing marked on his calendar this month. Circled in the same bright red sharpie he used for the hearts around Han Solo’s photo is this coming Friday: the day their college applications due date.

His heart drops like lead into his stomach at the sight. He had managed to forget about the heavy weight of their future for one blissful hour, but now that he’s noticed it, the calendar is all he can see. He can’t tear his eyes away from it. He sits up, feet hanging off the bed and swinging far too fast to be considered casual. He wrings his hands and stares.

“Eddie? Eds!” Richie calls, startling him out of his reverie. His eyes snap back to Richie’s face, a confused smile on his face. “What’s up? You didn’t laugh at the stupid voice I gave to the monster like you always do. Are you _even_ paying attention to this _riveting_ tale?” Eddie shakes his head regretfully and Richie gasps, touching his fingertips to his chest with a limp wrist. “Well, I’ll be!” he simpers in the Southern belle Voice. “My man’s found himself a more eligible bachelor. What _ever_ will I do?”

Eddie laughs as Richie abandons his book haphazardly on the floor without marking the page and crawls over, resting his chin on Eddie’s knees. “Sorry, baby,” Eddie says, carding his fingers through his hair. “You know Han Solo’s the only man for me.”

“Well, we’re going to have to share!” Richie defends hotly, glancing over at the calendar himself. “He’s so _handsome_ and _strong_ and — oh.” Richie’s voice drops out and sounds so small when he finally notices the big red circle defining their fate. “I see.”

“Yeah,” Eddie sighs. Richie turns back, resting his cheek on Eddie’s thigh.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“You mean argue about it?” Eddie frowns. He shakes his head. “No. We’re having a good day, I don’t want to ruin it with my stupid worrying.”

“Okay, first off, your worries are not stupid. None of them, but especially this. This is big.” Richie smirks, eyebrows jumping. “Like someone _else_ I know.”

“Jesus,” Eddie groans, tugging Richie’s hair sharply. “Fuck off.”

“Okay, no,” Richie says, voice thick with something that heats Eddie’s skin. He reaches up to loosen Eddie’s grip on his hair. “We’re not doing _that_ right now.”

“Doing what?” Eddie asks innocently. He tugs again and Richie groans, burying his face between Eddie’s thighs. “This?”

“Please,” Richie begs, coming out a little broken. Eddie isn’t sure if he’s pleading with him to stop or to continue, but he chooses to cease his teasing, soothing Richie’s scalp only with light scratches now. Richie sighs gratefully and the warmth of his breath fans over Eddie’s skin. “Thank you. Duplicitous little minx.”

Eddie laughs and pushes the curls that hang loosely over Richie’s forehead back as he lifts his head once again. They look at each other fondly for a little while until Eddie mutters _hold on_ and reaches over into Richie’s nightstand to pull out his hairbrush. “Turn around,” Eddie urges quietly. Richie presses his back into the side of the mattress and sits in between Eddie’s legs as Eddie starts to gently work the tangles out of his hair. Richie sighs, head bowed slightly in contentment.

“Thanks, angel,” he whispers. Eddie smiles.

“Welcome.” They sit in silence for a little while as Eddie collects his thoughts, trying to figure out the best place to start. He supposes there isn’t one, not with this type of too-big conversation, and decides to just talk through his thoughts out loud so Richie can hear them, too.

“It’s just that… You know, you have all these big dreams, sweetheart. Dreams that I can’t really fit into.” Richie starts to cut in, trying to refute that, but Eddie shushes him softly. “Can I just get this out? I promise you can talk after.” Richie nods slowly, hooking his arms around Eddie’s calves. Eddie continues running the brush through his curls even though most of the snarls are out now simply because it gives him something to do with his nervous hands, still somehow always reaching for his inhaler in times of stress, and because he knows Richie never got this type of affection when he was little from his parents. They seem to always be reaching for each other because it's far better than any other alternative.

“If you gave up those dreams of getting as far away from Derry as possible just to assuage my anxieties about leaving my mother, not only would I never forgive myself, but you would definitely grow to resent me. I know you keep telling me that you’d follow me anywhere, but therein lies the problem. You might end up wanting to leave me, babe. I know you never would because that’s exactly what your father did, and I know you’d never willingly be anything like him. No, you’d stick it out, miserable, despondent, and you’d grow to hate me. I’d much rather be alone than have you hate me.”

“I could never hate you,” Richie says slowly, sadly, once he’s certain Eddie is finished. He tips his head so that his cheek is pressed against Eddie’s knee and lets out a big sigh.

“I know you’d never _want_ to,” Eddie says gently. “But that’s the only way I see this happening. I can’t seem to suss out a universe in which we both get what we want and stay together.”

“Because what you want is to be comfortable. Stasis. Have everything stay the same.” Eddie nods reluctantly.

“Right. And you have this yearning in you for the chaos of change that I just don’t have.” Eddie sighs and thinks this over. “Sometimes, I think we’re too different for this to ever work.” Richie stiffens against Eddie, and he can just imagine Richie’s wide-eyed-terrified look. He continues brushing as if he hadn’t said anything alarming. “But sometimes, I know that I want it to. That’s what I want, you know. I want chaos as long as there’s someone there to cause it with me. Chaos alone is unmanageable. Chaos together is…” He pauses, his movements ceasing, and they’re both holding their breaths. “Well, it’s almost desirable.”

Eddie can feel Richie smile where he’s still pressed against his skin. He turns his head and leaves a small kiss in the crook of Eddie’s knee.

Richie was the first to want to leave when they all talked about it a few years ago, before they’d even met Ben. _I can’t wait to blow this popsicle stand,_ he’d gushed. _Me and Beverly, in a city of lights. Right, Miss Marsh?_ Beverly had smiled and readily agreed. _Right, Tozier._ He didn’t include the rest of them because they’d all already stated they didn’t really want to leave the east coast, most especially and vehemently Eddie. But Eddie knows that Richie still wants a city of glittering lights, towering buildings that make him feel small, a place to finally call home somewhere far filled to the brim with life. Because that’s exactly what he is.

Eddie is terrified at the prospect, so he has already filled out his applications to the University of Maine and Boston College because Boston is about as far away from his mother as she’s willing to let him go. But he has the papers for UCLA and UC Davis as well as NYU - secretly of course, buried in his backpack in folders he knows both his mother and Richie won’t think to look in. But he can’t bring himself to fill them out. He feels like he still has the ghost of his inhaler in his hand crushing his windpipe, choking his freedom stiff whenever he thinks about it. But then Richie tips his head back and _looks_ at him, eyes full of soul, heart full of promise, and he _breaks._

“Oh, baby, no,” Richie frets, turning quickly on his knees as Eddie buries his face in his hands and cries. Richie runs his hands up and down the tops of Eddie’s thighs, a bit too quickly to be considered anything but anxious, until Eddie drops his elbows down onto them. Richie moves his hands to Eddie’s hair then, smoothing it back gently as Eddie seems to always do subconsciously when Richie cries. Eddie takes a huge, shuddering breath at the feeling and almost smiles. He doesn’t want to live without it, without what they’ve built, without _Richie,_ but he doesn’t see a future where he can have him.

“I wanna leave so bad, Rich. I wanna just _go._ But I’m so fucking scared of both being rejected and upsetting my mom,” Eddie whispers brokenly. “She’d hate me, Rich. I know it.”

“She wouldn’t hate you, Eddie darling,” Richie promises softly. “We’ll... We’ll figure it out.”

“Well, we don’t have much time to,” Eddie says sourly, raising his head to look through bleary eyes to the calendar on the wall. Richie follows his gaze and sees the big red circle coming fast like a freight train and threatening to knock them entirely off balance. Richie turns back to Eddie, and his smile is oddly serene, like he’s seen the future and it looks just fine. Like he’s seen the future and they’re happy. Together. Eddie doesn’t understand how one person can hold so much faith.

“Well then, let’s figure it out now, angel.”

Eddie sighs and nods. “Okay,” he whispers. He scoots back onto the pillows at the head of Richie’s bed and leans against the headboard, leaving plenty of room beside him for Richie to sit. He climbs up and takes the open spot beside Eddie, so close that they’re pressed together from the tips of their shoulders all the way down to the sides of their feet. It’s a comfort for them both. Eddie fiddles with the hairbrush he’s still holding, tugging at the hair that’s collected and putting it in his lap to throw away later. Whenever he gets a sizable clump of it, Richie reaches over and throws it in the trash can underneath his bedside table. Eddie sighs when the brush is clean and puts it down, tipping his head onto Richie’s shoulder. The silence has been overwhelming, stifling, and Eddie hates it just as much as Richie does. Neither of them know what to say. So, as he always does, Richie speaks.

“I like California,” is all he says. A quiet admission of truth. Eddie knows this just as much as he refuses to admit it.

“How much?” Eddie asks warily.

“Enough that I’ve already filled out applications to UCLA, Davis and Stanford.” He sighs, taking Eddie’s hand. “But I don’t want to be where you’re not.”

“I don’t either,” Eddie says. He runs his thumb over Richie’s knuckles slowly, dipping into the spaces between them. “But I don’t know how to get there.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure that’s what maps are for,” Richie teases and Eddie giggles, poking his stomach where his hand is resting. Richie squirms and laughs as well.

“Shut up. I meant in the grand scheme of things,” Eddie says, still smiling. He’s so glad sometimes for Richie’s inability to take things seriously for too long sometimes. “I don’t know how to leave my nervousness behind and just _do_ something. Go somewhere.”

“Well, you can’t, sweetheart,” Richie murmurs, curling his arm around Eddie’s shoulder and pulling him as close as he can. “Your anxiety will follow you. It sucks, and I really wish it didn’t have to. But the thing is, the longer you’re away from your mother, the easier it’ll be for you to breathe.”

“How do you know?” Eddie asks, mouthing barely moving as he quietly forms the words.

“I’ve seen it,” Richie says definitely, no room for argument. “The longer you’re away from her, the more _you_ you become. Louder, _mouthier,”_ he pokes Eddie’s cheek and he turns his head further into Richie’s chest to escape it, “sweeter. Gentler. You pay so much more attention to other people when you’re not around her. When you’ve been around her for too long, she’s all you can see. She’s your blinders, I guess. Like on horses.” He adopts a Voice for the next sentence. “But if you’d let me be your cowboy, we could ride off into the sunset together, pardner.” Eddie giggles and the Voice drops. “Leave her and all the shit she forces you to be behind.”

“You think I can?” His voice is so small. He usually doesn’t ever voice the insecure thoughts he has, wants to be seen as so much stronger than he knows he is. Fake it ‘til you make it. But he’s tired. He’s so tired. He can’t keep fighting himself any longer.

“I know you can, Eddie baby,” Richie coos.

“And you won’t get sick’a me?” Eddie asks, propping his chin up on Richie’s chest to look up at him. Richie smiles and kisses his forehead, long and chaste and so full of _everything._

“Never,” he swears, and Eddie believes him. He nods, having made up his mind, and goes to climb over Richie.

“Woah, woah, woah, hold your horses, pardner!” Richie says in that stupid cowboy Voice again that always makes Eddie smile. “Where you off to in such a hurry?”

Eddie doesn’t answer him with words. He shuffles through his backpack, finding his Trig folder and grabbing the California applications out of them. He holds them up to Richie and smiles. Richie can’t read them from the little bit of distance between them, so he gets up to sit in front of Eddie and takes them. He looks between them for a while, a smile slowly blooming across his face. He looks up positively gleeful and Eddie loves him more than anything else.

Richie Tozier is more than worth the trouble it takes to push away his anxieties and insecurities and _try._ He wants to try for a future worth having.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi to windy on tumblr @ [bevrichie](http://bevrichie.tumblr.com)!


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